Scavengers - A Warframe Story
by Katsuhiro
Summary: Two scavengers find something deep beneath the ice; a relic of the Old War. A relic that would change their lives forever.
1. Chapter 1

Breath hot against the inside of his facemask, Telin tested the give on the static line; grunting in satisfaction.

"I still say we should have sent a drone." Kelpo's voice growled up from the darkness further below.

The ice shaft was strewn with the remains of an old Corpus freighter, which had ploughed a tunnel deep into the planet's surface a century before. Girders and twisted gantries jutted out of the smooth ice like scary fingers, offering a precarious handhold here, a momentary respite there. Not that one could afford to be complacent: one careless misstep meant certain death.

The only light was from the rigs affixed to their environment suits.

Chest heaving, Telin caught his breath. A momentary lapse in judgement made him look down. A mistake. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a lurching feeling in his stomach.

"Exercise, Kelp." Telin managed, as he steadied himself "It breeds character."

"I've plenty of character." Kelpo panted between strikes of his ice pick. "It's the falling that concerns me. Salvage contracts don't mend broken spines."

"But they do pay creds." Telin slammed an ice pick into the sheer surface. "Creds we badly need."

It was true. They were subcontractors; an independent salvage team on the lowest rung of Anyo Corp's payroll. The megacorps controlled most of the big surface digs on Venus. Out here was the Badlands of the frozen rock; at the very fringes of Corpus territory. There was no law here, and any expeditions brave or foolish enough to operate this deep were often machine led, driven by automated proxies.

 _Or madmen_ , Telin grinned.

Budget dictated their approach. They had a two person skimmer some three klicks south of their current position, and had hauled their scaling gear here by hand: crude projectile grapples and climbing webbing. His shoulders ached from the climb.

The risk of exhaustion, hypothermia and falling down bottomless pits aside, Telin was thoroughly enjoying himself. Old enough to know better, young enough not to care; this was exactly the type of adventure he had signed up for. Frontier salvage work, far removed from the shipping lanes and polite conversation of the Market Cities. Not for him, no Sir.

His tastes were a little more… visceral. Hurricane winds and stomach lurching pitfalls. Honest work, tactile; raw and untamed. Fortunes and opportunity awaited those adventurous enough to brave Venus' surface. All you had to do was get your hands dirty. Or frozen.

Such was Telin's view of the world. This was unfortunate, as fate - it transpired - had an entirely different plan in mind.

It was then that Kelpo's scanner emitted a strange pinging sound. Telin twisted about in his harness.

"What was that?"

"What was _what_?" Kelpo huffed, hauling his bulk onto the same outcrop, feet dangling precariously. The two men sat panting on a sturdy section of metal plating that might have once been a deck plating, or a ceiling. It didn't matter. It just meant they could have a badly needed rest.

His oldest friend, Kelpo was a stocky fellow; all arms and no neck. Familia glyphs of home and corpus stencilled his skin, underlit by the lighting rig around his environment suit.

Like Telin's, it was a ramshackle job; the most reliable he could afford to build, and heavily customised. Their mouths were obscured by breathing masks; their faces ghostly pale in the transparent visors that cast them in an eerie greenish glow.

Telin pointed at Kelpo, breathlessly.

"Your scanner just pinged."

"It did?" Kelpo frowned, rummaging in his pack. He produced a battered sensor wand, and gave it a perfunctory slap. For a moment nothing happened. He cursed, and slapped it again.

The sensor wand lit up at the same moment Kelpo's eyes did. The scavenger grinned toothily, scrambling to his feet. The signal was unsual; an echoing return, indicating heavy interference.

"What's the read, Kelp?" Telin asked, his visor almost touching Kelp's.

"Secondary tunnel, due north. We're right on top of it." Kelp pointed at an impassive wall of ice. "There."

Telin shrugged his own pack to the floor, unfurling a long object triple wrapped in thick cloth.

The cutting beam was a boxy wedge of metal. Like all of their gear, it was all but bashed together with spare parts and a can-do attitude. It felt heavy and clumsy in his gloved hands.

Telin settled into a crouch, the plasma cutter braced.

The beam kicked once as it lanced into burning life a licking purring sound emanating from the ice as it hissed venting steam. The power pack bleated in alarm, over-heating. Telin depressed the trigger.

A smooth crawl space had been speared through the icy rock. Telin slung his pack back over his shoulder and scrambled through the still-bubbling ice water. Kelpo followed behind, splashing noisily.

Telin clambered to his feet and almost fell over in shock. Kelpo clamped a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

"Well I'll be damned." Kelpo breathed.

Kelpo's initial read had been wrong. It was not a tunnel at all.

The chamber was a natural formation; a vast vaulted ceiling of icicles and frozen rock.

Less natural was the crashed ship at its center; a twisted ruin of curling metal and burst organic matter. Frozen coolant had warped the ice around it an oily black. The rock itself had been scorched and frozen over. Whatever impact trajectory the ship had taken, it could not be described as a gentle landing.

There was no impact hole from the surface. This had sat here for hundreds, if not thousands of years.

Kelpo's scanner wand cheeped manically. He twisted it off, leaving the two men alone in stunned silence.

After a moment, Kelpo was the first to speak.

"So… what do you think it is?" he asked.

Telin's eyes never left the shattered ship.

"Opportunity."


	2. Chapter 2

" _In the event of a Tier 0 Site Discovery, all personnel are required to document their findings and log appropriate fee claims immediately in advance of site processing. Failure to do so on time and within stated parameters will result in immediate censure, with the offending parties potentially risking indefinite termination, personal liquidation or, more seriously, denial of their introductory finders fee."_

 _Corpus Salvage Edict 47-19_

* * *

"We should call it in." Kelpo said, after a moment.

The two men had not moved from their spot at the entrance to the vast chamber.

"In a bit." Telin shook his head, "I want to know what we're looking at first."

"A big fat payday, that's what." Kelpo chuckled. He was already unpacking his com unit. "I'll get the transmitter juiced."

"Wait." Telin held a hand up.

" _Wait_? You serious? You know how seriously Anyo reps treat protocol. "

"I mean _wait_. This is good salv, Kelp. _Life changingly good salv_. Let's get a proper sense of what we're dealing with before we call it in."

"This is a bad idea, Tel. And _changingly_ isn't a word."

"It _will_ be when we get _paid_ , Kelp. You wanna get short changed?"

Kelpo hesitated, then wrapped the transmitter back up. Like any good freelancer, a healthy focus on margins was the quickest way to the man's heart.

"Good." Telin snapped on a hand held torch and started forward. "C'mon."

The two scavengers circling the downed ship with some trepidation; Kelpo with his scanning wand, Telin playing his light over the crumpled hull. The ship was big; far bigger than the small skimmer that had brought them here.

As battered as it was, the original design of the ship was much too streamlined to be of Corpus design.

"You think it's Orokin?" Kelpo asked.

"Gotta be. No Grineer ship matches this description."

"Survivors?"

Telin crouched down and scooped up a frozen chunk of organic matter. The ship's very innards had burst. He scraped it into a sample jar affixed to his belt. It was all but frozen solid

"Doubtful." Telin grunted, slapping his hands clean.

Telin swiped snow from the display gauge mounted on the wrist of his environment suit. He keyed a series of commands into it.

The boxy shoulder pad of his suit snapped free and rose into the air of its own volition, repulsors humming. With a metallic clack it unfurled into a drone. It was an avian thing. Unlike the more salubrious models adopted by those higher in Corpus society, HWK-44 was custom made; smaller – a patchwork to be sure - but not lacking in craft. Its hull was stencilled in all matter of logos, memes and serial numbers; a testament to its mongrel heritage.

It chirped an enthusiastic greeting. Telin gestured to the wreckage; all business.

"Audio and visual feed up to five hundred meters; full site documentation; repeating. Prepare for tight beam broadcast on my signal. No stream, we don't know who's out there."

HWK emitted an affirmative cheap and swept into the air, panning sensor beams all over the site. The drone was part aide, field assistant and occasional pet. Under normal circumstances, Telin would have mapped the site himself, rather than risking HWK in such an extreme environment.

These were not ordinary circumstances.

The scavengers stepped onto the hull. It sounded metallic, felt as much to the touch. There were no discernible access hatches that Telin could see.

A deep scar had riven its way through the front of the hull; some kind of beam weapon based on the impact profile. Whatever semi-organic material the ship was composed of had failed to heal the damage fully. Telin was from a mining family; the fused tissue looked like any number of industrial accidents he had seen as a boy.

The gap was just barely wide enough to accommodate the bulk of a single man. The scavengers hunkered down over the wound, peering down into the dark recess.

Darkness stared back at them.

"You seeing this?" Telin asked, incredulous. "This ship wasn't built. It was _grown_."

Kelpo shook his head, dumbfounded. Without a moment's hesitation, Telin started lowering himself into the gap. Kelpo met his eye as he hovered halfway through the hole.

"You're not actually going _in_ there, are you?"

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained!" Telin grinned. Then he vanished.

Kelpo swore vehemently.

"Tel!" Kelpo yelled. "Tel you bastard; you okay?!"

No response came. Cursing, Kelpo squeezed through and followed.

He yelped as he clattered to a metallic deck. Telin hauled him upright.

"That's gonna bruise." Kelpo muttered.

In response to the sudden commotion, the ship's internal lights began glowing to life. They pulsed sickly; lighting in fits and starts. It was a testament to the ship's design that it still managed to function after so much trauma.

Instinctively Kelpo produced his scanning wand, wielding it like a particularly ineffectual sword. Telin for his part took point, his suit's lighting rig automatically dimming in response to the increasing visibility.

The inside of the ship had fared just as poorly. Nearly every console was fried, and scorch marks blanketed the floor and walls. Even in the ship's bizarre internal microclimate, the invading ice chased every surface. Curiously, it still seemed warmed inside the ship than without.

They were stood in what appeared to be the central corridor of the ship. A descending ramp fed deeper into the ship. It too had been fused open; its surface warped and buckled by extreme heat.

"No flight seats, no crew restraints. No damn _cockpit_." Kelpo shook his head, "Just what the hell _is_ this thing?"

Telin reached up and keyed the record button linked to the side of his visor. He panned from left to right, documenting the devastation.

"Advanced tech, that's for sure. _Way_ above our pay-grade. Wonder what could have done this much damage."

Wand scanning, the two men crept deeper into the ship.

Telin stopped in his tracks so suddenly Kelpo walked smack into him.

Any protestations were cut short by the sight before them.

Slumped in the centre of the ship was an immense figure; of a scale far larger than any human; gene enhanced or not. It was tethered to a central station that had all but collapsed in on itself; the heaped flesh of the ship having pooled around it like melted wax. Entombed, its angular lines were blurred by a coating of ice; its silhouette all but indistinguishable.

"Hell is that thing?!" Kelpo hissed.

"How should I know?!" Telin shot back. "And _why are we whispering_?! It's clearly dead!"

"I sure hope so!"

They kept a cautious distance from it as they crept forward. Telin looked down and realised he was toting the plasma cutter like a rifle. He shook himself and lowered it. No sense risking the salvage.

Kelpo's scanning wand piped up.

"Readings ahead."

The plasma cutter was half raised again.

"That thing alive?" Telin asked, eyes narrowed.

"Yes and no. Trace biological activity; all but dormant."

"Good." Telin glanced over his shoulder, "I'm sensing a 'but' here."

"But that's not the _only_ signature I'm reading. This next one's all over the damn scale, but localised. It's coming from deeper inside the ship."

They stepped gingerly past the frozen giant. The corridor wove around, feeding into two separate ramps. To either side were two rooms too badly damaged to enter.

At the very rear of the ship lay one final door. The door itself lay broken on the deck, scorched and blackened beyond recognition. Beyond it lay the single largest chamber, some kind of throne room.

It was here where the flesh of the ship's organic material had pooled thickest. encasing a large throne at the back of a vaulted chamber. The throne itself had buckled under the force of impact; all but webbed beneath the fossilized flesh. Kelpo's wand lit up as they played it over the wreckage.

Telin studied the throne carefully. He spoke aloud, for the benefit of the recording.

"Some kind of emergency response. The ship dumped its biological material around critical components. Whatever was in that chair, the ship died saving it."

"You talk like it was alive." Kelpo shook his head.

Telin shot him a look.

"Take one look and tell me it wasn't."

Kelpo shrugged, stepping forward and kneeling over the broken throne.

"Signal's erratic but it's here. Definitely getting some weird readings." He produced a small handheld cutter and began surgically stripping at the wall of flesh. "Give me a hand here Tel."

They got to work, working with the practised methology of seasoned scrappers. Entire rolls of fat were spliced from the throne, where they were cast aside steaming to the deck.

The throne itself took a lot more practised cutting. When they finally prised it away, it revealed the golden casket beneath.

"Statis pod." Kelpo grunted.

And inside, its occupant; perfectly preserved. A young teenager, scarcely older than a boy. His face was hidden by an ebony respirator, chased with silver. His hair was a dark black, shaved on one side. Small implants dotted either side of his brow. He slept peacefully, oblivious to the grim reality of his surroundings.

Kelpo leaned down and checked the readings on the side of the casket.

"Well, there you have it." A pause. "He's alive."

This time it was Telin's turn to swear. This complicated matters greatly.

A survivor meant an entirely different fee structure. Potentially a forfeit on full salvage rights.

"Call it in." Telin glowered. "Advanced ship; possibly Orokin origin."

His voice floating over his shoulder as he stalked out of the chamber.

"Ask 'em if there's a discretionary bonus for a rescue."


	3. Chapter 3

_[][]/Broker Ident 7242 [Full Serial No. Redacted], reporting salvage find. Deep dig, lift gear and boring team required. Filing fee claim and requesting site rights be recognised."_

 _/"Transmission acknowledged and order recognised, Broker 7242. Stand by for processing."_

 _[Considerable time lapse detected in response rate. Penalty auto-docked from tardy response time. Increased penalty rates applied for remaining trade cycle.]_

 _[][]/ "Transmission repeat: requesting fee and site rights be recognised. Possible Tier 0 find. Repeat;_ Tier Zero _. Importance:_ Maximum _. Do you_ want _this damn thing or not?"_

 _/ "Site recognised. Confirm coordinates for extraction team."_

 _[][]/"Coordinates sent. Additional: survivor presence detected. Query: If Orokin; additional Fee Scale apply?"_

\- Excerpt from Tenno intercepted transmission, Prospect 141, Venus Surface Station

* * *

Assistant Controller Kef Mehrino was not a senior member of Anyo Corp.

Any number of fundamentally depressing observations reminded him of this. That he was sat in the Data Traffic control tower of an all but forgotten surface way station was one. Another was his team, or lack of one. They were freelancers for the most part, low paid serfs and directionless clerks; scarcely more intelligent than an indentured crewman. Strictly entry level. _Hired help_ , he thought; lip curling unconsciously. They have no appreciation of the greater pursuit of Profit.

Most damning of all was the view. There was none. Just the endless howling blizzard of the most recent storm, occasionally broken up by the flitting lights of a passing star freighter. Kef often wondered why they Corp had installed a window in the first place. He was sat behind a large desk overlooking the open plan trading floor. A vista of desk and swirling data bathed the trading floor below. To the layman, it might be impressive. To him, it was a damning reminder of his own insignificance.

The station, locally identified as Prospect 141, was one of several across the surface city of the planet. Most of the cities were underground, set deep within the ice. While the orbital stations formed the bulk of civilised society on Venus, that did not mean a presence was not required in the more… untamed parts of the Corpus Empire. Beneath his tower were the habitation stacks; which became steadily more lawless the deeper you went. Right down to the coolant pits at the very foundation of the city itself.

Still, Kef was proud of his meagre station. He was part air traffic controller, part data handler and broker; with a measure of autonomy that was the very envy of the junior staff. He was even allowed to handle a limited portfolio, provided of course that the traditional Anyo tithes were observed; promptly and without complaint. The interest penalties were extortionate, and if one could not pay with credits then one often paid with one's life.

That is not to say that Kef Mehrino was satisfied with his station in life. He was a talented and capable broker, he knew it in his bones. His ambition far outstripped the limited confines of his role, and with that ambition came an appetite for …certain risks. It was this very ambition that required him to consider the few advantages of being placed in a command position with so many hired hands on the lawless frontier. Nothing blasphemous, no. But a certain eye for a quiet deal here, a neat transaction there. It had gotten him this far, and would only get him further. The key was to recognise the opportunities, and – when presented – seize them.

One such opportunity presented itself that very morning, early in the mid-cycle shift.

One of his techs stabbed at his keyboard with unusual ferocity. One of the newer crew members. Kef spared a glance at the biometrics display. It depicted the entire status of his trading floor.

Elevated pulse detected. Excitement? Stress?

Potential impact on efficiency. Lack of focus. Unacceptable. He had best get to the bottom of it.

Junior Clerk A-42. What was the man's actual name? Tohrin, Baldo?

"Torbo." He smiled broadly, pleased to have finally remembered.

"Actually it's… _Jef_ , Sir." The clerk mumbled, turning pale. "Torbo rotated off-world two cycles ago."

Kef scolded himself for the momentary lapse in memory. That only rendered Jef paler. Though the Assistant Controller was but a larger cog in the Anyo Corp's machine, hierarchy mattered here. Kef's team knew all too well how truly ruthless he could be in maximising Prospect 141's efficiency. A number of empty chairs on the floor stood testament to that.

"Well then… Jef. Approach. What do you have for me?"

Jef rose to his feet and wound his way between work stations, visibly trembling as he approached Kef's dais. Hands knitted, the man's bow seemed almost too deferential for Kef's exacting taste. Kef did his best to hide his disdain as he received the report.

"Salvage report from the South-East Sector." Jef began, "Two man scouting team claiming site rights."

"Noted. I also note your bpm is higher than your tracked average. Is something the matter?"

Jef lowered his voice, and then added: "They… they're reporting a Tier 0 find, Sir."

"Are you certain?" Kef was surprised at the sharpness in his own voice.

"Yes Sir. The data pipe checks out."

"Beam it to my desk. Maximum encryption levels."

"Already on its way, Sir. What… what should we do?"

Kef ignored him. His eyes absorbed the information greedily. Image feeds, telemetry data.

His own heartrate spiked. He silenced the warning sigils on his display with a petulant stab of his finger.

"Have you shown this to anyone else, Jef?"

"No, Sir. You're the first to know."

"Good. Keep it that way. There's a bonus coming to you in your next pay packet. Further disclosure of any information recently discussed will result in said bonus being revoked, together with indefinite contract cancellation. Do I make myself clear?"

Jef swallowed audibly, but nodded.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir." Jef paused, hesitating. "Sir… but what _should_ we do?"

"Protocol is clear. Don't stress yourself any further with it. Leave this entirely with me. Erase your cache, and put it from your mind. I'll make sure this goes to the right people."

Junior Cleric Jef saluted, his dismissal clear.

"And one last thing, Jef."

"Sir?"

Kef Mehrino sat back in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled. His eyes remained fixed on the data feed, which rotated over and over again. The downed ship, the underground chamber. Two scavengers, climbing inside and disappearing from view.

"These men, they are one of our sub-contractors?"

"Yes Sir. Entry level, but reliable. One of the smaller freelance teams we run in the fringe sectors." Jef smiled, flushed with excitement. "I expect this is their big break."

"Yes, yes I imagine it is." Kef mused, uninterested. "Do me one last favour."

Kef Mehrino looked young Jef squarely in the eye.

"Get me Kahrl Bravic on the line."


	4. Chapter 4

" _Ah, Venus: illustrious jewel in the Corpus Empire. Endless days, limitless opportunity. A planet of contrasts; extreme heat, matched by boundless tracks of shimmering ice. Our predecessors the Orokin seeded the skies with blocks of ice; smashing them down and rendering the planet fit for surface occupation. Their vision is continued today by the tireless work of Anyo Corp, who are proud to announce yet another lucrative third quarter."_

 _\- extract from Profiting from Profiteering - A Corpus Trader's Guide to the Origin System_

" _Stay away from the Frozen Sectors. Original Orokin tech; don't ask me how it works. High yield salvage, if you don't freeze, but the crews it attracts are… unsavoury. Stick to the hot zones. You'll live longer._

 _\- Unknown Solaris United worker_

* * *

A war barge rumbled over the Frozen Sectors. Unlike the clean, square lines of a traditional Corpus trading vessel, this was lumped with additional armour plating, bulging anti-air turrets; even a cruel looking grappling hook design for spearing other barges. Chains trailed low beneath its hull, securing a small collection of smaller strike skiffs and landing skimmers. A passing trader had once remarked that it was the most Grineer-looking Corpus vessel to ever behold.

The trader's comments were quietly noted, and then his skull mounted on the prow. The crew of the _Severance Package_ were not known for their subtlety.

Appearances were deceiving, however. The crew of the _Severance_ had not acquired such a vast array of hardware by being simple marauders. They were the best at what they did, and were amply rewarded for it. Internally the ship was festooned with drone manufactories, scanning equipment, redundant shield systems; every modern convenience a Corpus sub-contractor could hope for. The ship had been built under the merciless drive and singular drive of its captain, Kahrl Bravic.

If Bravic belonged to one of the trading families it was impossible to tell. He cut an immense, savage figure, corded in lean muscle. His head was shorn; his face a bristling beard of silver grey. The man's left arm was a Grineer augment, a battle trophy from some ancient skirmish he never spoke of, and none were stupid enough to ask. Similar trophies adorned either hips; twinned Grakata sub-machine guns; retro-fitted with all manner of optical attachments of dubious utility. The only visual sign of his allegiance to Anyo Corp was a single armoured shoulder pad, stencilled with their logo.

Bravic lounged in the throne seat, one armoured boot resting on a console before him. He idly toyed with small Moa articula as he watched the trade displays. He had taken a position on a number of weapon shipments entering the Jupiter markets. Just as well. Grineer galleons had blockaded the shipping lanes, spiking the value. Bravic was pleased. The port side rail guns could use an upgrade.

Kahrl Bravic was no mere scavenger; indeed, the _Severance_ was but one of a fleet of scavenging barges he operated in this sector. His portfolio work was simple, but calculated on ruthless principle: predict the next war, take the necessary long positions. If necessary, start the fight yourself, loot the dead; repeat.

"Transmission coming through from Prospect 141." Teico, his coms officer announced.

Teico was the only person on board who bore the closest resemblance to a traditional Anyo crewman. This served Bravic's purposes: he looked more official when they absolutely had to deal with the powers that be.

"Put it through."

The message was encrypted, Kef Mehrino was the sort of paranoid, low level idiot that believed such measures were necessary out here on the frontier. Bravic quickly ran their agreed upon cypher, and digested the information carefully. He very suddenly sat up in his throne.

Kef Mehrino may be a fool, but he had his moments. Bravic snapped his fingers at a passing officer.

"Speyer, prep a collection crew." Bravic ordered, "You'll need dig gear, boring drills. Probably a grav lift."

Built like an Eidolon and twice as mean; Speyer had done a significant amount of field work on Europa, the icy moon of Jupiter. Ice work in particular was his specialty. There were few more dependable.

"What are we looking at, Boss?"

Bravic gestured magnanimously, the servos in his arm whirring.

"Take a look."

Speyer had an aquiline face; his skin daubed in the ritualistic blue tattoos so many of the Anyo Corp favoured. His brow knitted as he took in the site telemetry.

"This what I think it is?"

"I believe so. _Tier 0._ "

Speyer let out a low whistle. After a pause, he concluded:

"I'll need six men. Armed. One of the larger skiffs too."

"Done." Bravic nodded.

"Anything else I need to know?"

Bravic set the articula aside, folding his arms.

"A two man crew called it in. Site rights are theirs."

"They licensed?" Speyer asked.

"Unfortunately."

Speyer scratched at his jowls; mulling it over. Bravic studied his lieutenant carefully, not saying another word.

"Your thoughts, Boss?"

"It's your call. Dangerous work out in the ice."

"A lot can happen." Speyer agreed sagely.

A ghost of a smile tugged at Kahrl Bravic's lips.

"… and I'm not inclined to share fees."


	5. Chapter 5

" _It's a question of margins. You can make all the turnover in the galaxy, but if your operating costs are too high, one will never attain a state of True Profit. Beware the Referral Fee. If you find yourself in this position, the Path is clear._

 _Eliminate the Overhead."_

 _\- Nef Anyo 3:15, Meditations on Maximising Profit_

* * *

The two men sat outside on the nose of the ruined ship, warming their gloved hands on the small heat source HWK 44 had deposited in the air before them. A spinning orb rotated in the drone's gravity fields; a tiny iridescent ball of plasma that wobbled and fizzled in the gloom. The drone for its part did not seem to mind the wait; it was simply happy to be unpacked and of service.

The drone's owner was quite another matter.

"You called it in, right?" Telin asked for the third time in as many minutes.

"I did." Kelpo nodded patiently.

"And they recognised our claim?"

"They did. Proper authorisation codes and all."

"Right, right. Just checking."

"You seem worried."

"You're not?" Telin asked. "This is _big_ , Kelp. Bigger than anything we've ever landed. How long have we worked the ice?"

"Three years, two months and four work cycles; adjusting for time dilation."

"That's alarmingly specific."

"I can be an alarmingly specific person, Tel. We climb coolant glaciers for a living. You think I got this far by being sloppy?"

They had left the casket where it was, safe in the belly of the ruined freighter. Without advanced lifting equipment there was no moving it. Their claim had been processed, the wheels were in motion. Now all they had to do was wait.

The wait ended when the transmitter strapped to Kelpo's belt crackled.

"Eyes up, Broker 7242. Extractor arriving in 5, 4 –"

The remaining countdown was drowned out by a bellicose deluge of steam and fire.

Both men leapt to their feet. With a wave of his hand, HWK snapped back into position on Telin's shoulder. The cacophony was brief; the roar of the plasma drill bursting into a the chamber in a final spray of smoking debris. Ashen flakes of melted rock drifted through the chamber like settling fallout.

The extractor unit was chain fixed; a deep level boring drill that combined plasma torches with a wickedly sharp set of drill-teeth. Clinging to the chain were two armoured figures; clad in heavy-plated environment suits. Industrial grade respirators granted them an almost insectile appearance; all coolant pipes and moulded goggles.

The drill whirred to a halt as it winched down to the base of the vaulted chamber; its teeth still steaming liquidated coolant as it settled. The drill operators spared a glance around the chamber. One of them murmured into a wrist-com, and they began clambering down to the floor.

As Telin and Kelpo approached, two more men slid down the chain, clambering down from the rig with an ease borne from experience. Both were dressed in hard-suits not entirely dissimilar to Telin's own, though a slightly newer model. Their face masks were a mirrored silver. Telin saw the sigil on their hard-suits, and frowned.

It seemed familiar.

The largest of the newcomers stepped forward, hand raised in greeting. Telin was not a small man by any stretch, but even so this brute dwarfed him.

"Broker 7242?" the man asked, his voice heavily filtered through the filtration mask. He touched the side of his visor and it smartly depolarised, revealing a weathered face, heavily tattooed. His suit left his face entirely exposed behind the visor; hinting at an altogether more advanced filtration system.

Kelpo stepped forward, holding up his Salvage Licence. Corpus runes played across the surface of the tablet. The larger man took it in with the briefest glance, nodding once. He produced the corresponding Requisition Slate, flashing it briefly.

Kelpo proffered a hand.

"7242 at your service. Name's Kelpo Marr. This is my business partner, Telin Voss."

"Speyer." There was no surname forthcoming as he shook their hands, brusquely. "This here's Wen. Quite a find you have here."

"I'll say. You're going to need heavy lift gear to shift it."

"We've it covered. Let's take a look."

Speyer turned to his men.

"Loading Team!" he bellowed, "Let's make some credits!"

Automatically the rest of the men began unpacking further chains from the boring drill; fanning out either side of the ruined ship. The bulk of the chains were propped up by grav fields, which bobbed and thrummed under the strain.

"You reported a survivor?" Speyer asked publicly.

"Yeah, still inside." Kelpo grinned, beckoning. "This way."

Telin had yet to say a word. He studied the sigil on the back of Speyer's environment suit. It showed a Raptor drone, clutching a hammer. A Europa marker; one of the larger indentured crews, maybe? Boxed crooks for the most part; failed mercenaries, jailed thieves. Hired guns, out in this part of the world. Dangerous men, for dangerous work. Telin couldn't quite place it.

Still, a chill colder than anything beyond the confines of his hard-suit crept along the nape of Telin's neck.

They paused at the entrance wound to the ship. If Speyer was perturbed by the unusual nature of the ship, he didn't show it. The man was evidently hardened - and certainly better travelled than Telin, who had spent most of his life here on Venus.

"You first, Gentlemen." Speyer motioned. "Your find, your show."

Telin and Kelpo dropped down into the ancient ship. Before the next men came through, Kelpo caught his eye and flashed a hand gesture. It was Miner Sign; taught between members of the lowest echelons of Corpus Society. A single phrase, almost too quick to process before it was gone.

 _Worried._

Speyer and Wen squeezed through behind them, taking in the ship with practised detachment. Telin could hear large bolts being machine-stamped into the side of the ship's frozen hull. Speyer's team evidently did not place a high priority on conservation.

"Should… should you guys be that _rough_ with this kind of find?" Kelpo winced as another bolt was slammed into the ship. It sounded like a gun shot in the confined space.

"It's not the _ship_ that matters." Speyer shrugged expansively. "Show me this survivor."

They moved forward, Speyer pausing only to examine the shrouded figure in the centre of the ship with an incredulous shake of his head.

Speyer clapped his hands when he was presented with the golden casket, barking a small laugh. He crouched down and examined the readout on the boy's casket.

This was not protocol. Where was their initial Finders Fee, the balance on Verification? This flew in the face of Anyo Corp due process. The credit counter on his HUD remained unchanged. None of this was normal. Pieces began to form in Telin's mind. Smaller details, filling a larger whole.

While Speyer was unarmed, the rest of his men were most definitely packing. Detron hand cannons, antique slug throwers and Flux rifles. Ship boarding weaponry; compact, brutally efficient. Favoured by the marines of the Corpus Fleet. Or pirates.

Then it clicked. The Europa symbol on Speyer's hard-suit was no work crew at all. It was an infamous chain gang, notorious for their participation in the sub-sector food riots.

Telin's Life Lessons bore none of the gravitas of Nef Anyo's teachings. There were no grand designs or hidden messages. No messianic vision. Just practical sense, thoroughly rooted self-interest:

 _If a deal_ seems _to be going bad, it most definitely_ is _._

Telin was suddenly acutely aware that Speyer's lackey Wen had casually sidled to the entrance of the broken throne room, effectively boxing them in. Telin rapped his knuckles against the breastplate of his environment suit; a different coded language altogether; this one used in the labour pits of Solaris United; rapped out against gantries to alert workers about the approach of particularly vindictive overseers.

 _Danger._

Whether Kelpo understood or not, Telin couldn't tell. There was no time.

"And he's definitely alive?" Speyer was asking.

"There's no telling how long he's been there, but yeah." Kelpo nodded, "Readings are stable."

"Excellent. Truly excellent find." Speyer turned and glanced up at his companion. "Pay the man, Wen."

Far too quick to process, Wen produced a snub nosed pistol and neatly shot Kelpo in the head.

Kelpo toppled without so much as a murmur.

With a roar, Telin was on the man in a flash. Or at least he would have been, had he not been neatly tossed across the room. As the wind slammed from his lungs, Telin became very aware that he was no trained fighter, but that the men currently in the process of murdering them very much were.

Speyer and Wen looked down at him, with a combined look that could have been described as pity, were it not so laced with contempt.

"Brave effort, Scavver." Speyer smiled. Then his face grew stony.

"Kill him."

HWK-44 let out an avian shriek as it flew loose at high speed; crunching into Wen's faceplate with a splintering crack. The man toppled lifeless to the floor, the drone wedged in his face.

The pistol tumbled free from the man's hands, skittering across the floor.

Speyer and Telin both looked at the gun.

They looked back at each other.

They dove in unison.

Speyer had size, but Telin had a scrappy speed. Neither worked. Both landed in a sprawling heap at the same time, wrestling and snarling over the gun. Sledgehammer punches landed into Telin's sides time and time again. Enraged, Telin jolted his helmet into Speyer's, hard.

The pricing difference was clear: a disconcerting rivulet snaked its way across Telin's vision, venting oxygen with a wet hiss. Speyer's own visor remained pristine. Speyer guffawed, then savagely elbowed Telin in the throat. Telin fell back, gasping.

The gun came free in Speyer's triumphant hands.

He shoved it in Telin's face, leering over him.

Telin became keenly aware of every porous detail. The silver barrel of the battered pistol. The way the light glinted off the cracks of his visor. The cold, murderous rage in Speyer's eyes.

This was it. _This_ was how it ended.

A sheet of red exploded across Telin's vision.

Stricken, Speyer's body tumbled to one side. Jutting out the back of his neck was a low budget scanning wand. It had been driven clean through the base of the skull; spearing out between his teeth. The man's leg kicked and spasmed, not quite accepting the suddenness of his fate.

The wand for its part emitted a keening wail, declaring the very sudden flat-lining of its victim.

Kelpo stood over him, chest heaving. His faceplate a broken wreck, venting oxygen and streaming blood across the deck.

"Tel old buddy." Kelpo managed through mangled teeth. "Somehow I don't think they're inclined to share."


	6. Chapter 6

_"With every crisis, opportunity."_

\- Ancient business proverb

* * *

"Tell me again how you're still breathing, Kelp?"

Telin hastily patched the cracks in his own visor, sealing it with crude industrial tape. A bargain basement solution; cheap by his own frugal standards. He could barely see. In a panic he dumped his gear all over the hold, desperate to salvage the situation.

Now he was trying desperately to salvage whatever remained of Kelpo's face. What little medical supplies they carried were swiftly used up. Kelpo's face sooner became more gauzing and hastily wrapped bandages than exposed skin. His suit bleeped at him petulantly, a constant reminder of his depleting oxygen levels. The entire facemask was broken.

"Thick skulled, hard-headed. Plain old stubborn." Kelpo's voice words came out thickly slurred. "Take your pick."

"Don't make me laugh. This is hard enough without you fidgeting."

"I'm not fidgeting." Kelpo scowled.

The man was a mess. The bullet had shattered Kelpo's helmet, fragmented and torn ragged chunks out of his mouth, cheek and left eye. It was doubtful the eye could be saved without prosthetic replacement.

In a way, the antiquated nature of their environment suits saved his life; the older respirator serving as additional protection from the shards of slicing metal. It was through this same respirator that Kelpo took ragged breaths now, his face swelling massively and sealing his ruined eye shut.

The most pressing concern was the environment suit. The terraformed atmosphere was acceptable in very limited doses, but prolonged exposure at surface levels was a death sentence.

So Telin did what scavengers did best. He scavenged.

First he needed a set of tools. HWK-44 remained embedded in the remains of Wen's face, where it warbled feebly. Telin crouched over and took a firm grip of the drone's chassis and gave it a firm tug. It didn't budge. Completely disgusted, Telin swallowed and tried again, this time adding a twist.

The drone ripped free, together with most of the contents of Wen's skull.

Telin did his best not to recycle the contents of his stomach into his environment suit. It proved a struggle.

"Still with me buddy?" he asked HWK.

The drone's left spinner was a mangled wreck, but it kept itself afloat; spooling up one of its propulsion generators to compensate. It hooted groggily.

"Good. We've work to do."

Speyer's visor served as an acceptable replacement for Kelp's, once it had been duly emptied of the loose teeth skittering around inside. Telin made Kelpo keep his original respirator. Primarily because he was concerned removing it would do more harm than good.

HWK-44 got to work fusing the back of Kelp's newly acquired helmet shut. Kelp held his head in his hands and tried his best to stay still. Telin had dressed the man's wounds as best he could with sorely limited expertise, but throwing gauzing at the issue wasn't going to help unless they got him proper medical attention, and quickly.

Meanwhile, Telin took inventory.

An initial glance gave them Wen's pistol, some emergency flares, and a wicked looking knife Telin found secreted in Speyer's boot. He then opened Speyer's pack, which afforded him three hand grenades and an emergency survival kit. Another knife. Some kind of knuckle duster. There was more inside, but something else caught his attention.

A squawking, tinny rasp emanated from the ruins of the dead men's suits. Speyer's men, doubtlessly looking for a sit-rep.

Then a heavy set of boots slammed down on the forward deck.

"Boss, you there?" a modulated voice called. "We're all set!"

The footsteps clanged closer.

Telin searched with increased urgency. He scattered the contents of the pack across the floor.

A lumpy box fell onto the ground. Telin snatched it up.

It unfolded in his hands. Detron was the brand stencilled along the side. Telin had seen the weapons from afar; carried by patrolling crewmen. He had never held one, nor had he any idea how it worked; how difficult it was to fire.

The footsteps rang closer; descending the the rear ramp now. Telin rose to his feet, ducking against the low wall. He waved at Kelpo. As groggy as his friend was, the message was clear. Kelpo lay flat on the deck, sprawled amongst the corpses of the two fallen marauders.

Telin held his breath and waited.

He heard the rasping of the rebreather before he saw the nose of the rifle poke through the open hatch. An arm followed, then the shoulder it was attached to. The crewman instinctively started forward when he spied the three bodies piled messily across the floor.

Telin pressed the Detron to the back of the man's head and squeezed the firing stud.

There was a keening flash, and a shockingly limited amount of recoil. A tremendous sheet of blood painted the far wall. The man's corpse clanged gracelessly to the floor, his skull neatly vaporised above cheek level.

The Detron, it transpired, was user friendly.

Telin looked down at the body in stunned silence. He had never killed a man before. In less than thirty minutes, three now lay dead from one not entirely simple find.

Part of him wanted to cast the weapon aside in disgust. A deeper, rage-fuelled part of him felt perfectly calm.

The squawks on the dead men's com channels grew louder, more insistent.

Outside, they heard a single large propulsion drive snort into life with roaring flare. The discarded gear scattered throughout the hold began to vibrate and jump under the ever increasing thrum of the drill gaining power. Everything rattled.

Then there came a rattling of chains. A snaking, uncoiling sound, as they tightened.

The entire ship jolted, once.

Then the ancient ship began moving, emitting a metallic screech as it was dragged steadily across the subterranean cavern with ever-mounting speed.

Both scavengers swore as they drunkenly pulled themselves toward the front of the ship; lurching from stanchion to stanchion. The nose of the ship began tipping upward just as Telin pulled himself through the access wound.

The drill was above them, its chains taut with the strain of lifting the immense ship. Three immense chains secured the ship to the drill. Perched atop the ascending rig was the single surviving member of Speyer's retrieval team. He was gesturing frantically to companions far above and out of sight.

The ammo counter on the side of the Detron read: 4. Telin was no soldier. He had no spare ammunition for it, nor would he know how to reload it even if he did. Still, he was a scavenger.

Improvisation was in his nature.

He took aim at the heavy chains lifting the ships slowly from the cavern floor. He squeezed the trigger; once, twice, three times. He missed _repeatedly_. Three creaking chains continued to haul them upward, taunting him.

The ship left the ground entirely now.

Telin took careful aim, trying to see past the hastily taped patches obscuring his vision. He pressed the firing stud one final time.

His final shot missed the chains completely, sparking off the hull of the boring drill and sizzling the paintwork ever so slightly. The drill operator swore down at him with a balled fist.

Marksmanship was not his strong suit. Telin swore and threw the useless weapon aside.

"Tel!"

Telin looked down. Kelp had appeared in the gap of the hull, his gnarled face a frenzy of determination. He thrust something up into Telin's hands.

"You dropped this!"

It was Telin's battered plasma cutter.

The cutter was ancient. It had limited range, a temperamental battery; little to no accuracy. All but useless at the best of times.

It was perfect.

The cutter snarled to life in a flaring arc of plasma, slashing through the chains and spraying the cavern in a bubbling shower of molten sparks. The first chain snapped and the ship swung low like a pendulum, carving a runnel across the snow. Then the second chain then gave way, tipping the ship on its side entirely and spilling the two scavengers down onto the floor below.

The third chain groaned and quivered under immense strain. The drill operator visibly panicked as the rig itself spun giddily on its axis, entirely off-balance. Spinning with it was the ancient ship, suspended by a single tether. The metallic groan reached fever pitch.

Kelpo realised they stood directly beneath it.

"Move!" he bawled, hurling himself bodily into Telin.

The chain snapped. A shadow descended. There was a tremendous crash, and a splash of bubbling coolant.

Both scavengers blinked. Inches from them was the nose of the beached star ship, staring at them goofily. The glowing ends of the severed chains sizzled in the dark.

The drill disappeared up and out of sight, leaving them alone.

For a moment neither man spoke. They lay on their backs, battered and exhausted.

"Good shout with the cutter." Telin breathed.

"Yeah." Kelpo panted. "Thanks for patching me up."

"Don't thank me just yet. You look _terrible_."

"That's a first." Kelpo grin instantly became a grimace. He groaned and put a hand up to his bolted on visor. "Tell me you have a plan beyond me getting shot in the head again."

"Workin' on it." Telin propped himself up on his elbows. "I hate to say, but we need to move."

"Yeah, just let me rest here a moment."

Telin was already dusting himself off. He shook his head.

"No. No time. We need to _go_. Get the casket, wake the kid; back to our ship."

"What about the salvage?"

"Far as I can tell?" Telin hauled Kelpo back to his feet. "Kid _is_ the salvage."

* * *

"You sure this is a good idea?" Kelpo asked a final time.

They stood before the golden casket. The ship had fortunately landed flat on its belly, though not before rag-dolling the various corpses strewn about the hold. Scattered gear lay everywhere. Blood coated the walls, flecked the ceiling. Before the abortive extraction, the room was a mess. Now it was like an abattoir.

The sleeper lay serene, oblivious to it all.

"You got a better one? We've no lift gear, and I'm not leaving the kid to thieving scum."

"Telin Voss, developing a conscience?" Kelpo asked askance.

"Hardly. We'll _sell_ the kid. Get what's _owed_."

"You're all heart, Tel."

Kelpo knelt down before the casket, examining the control panel. For all its ornate presentation, Corpus variants had evidently borrowed large elements of its design. He began keying in the revival sequence.

"I hope this kid can walk." Kelpo grumbled as he typed.

The casket began to glow as its doors prepared to open.

"Focus." Telin shushed him. "He's coming around now."

"I'm just saying, _I'm_ not carrying him. I don't even have a _face_ anymore."

Telin didn't get a chance to respond.

The pod opened with a whooshing hiss as it vented air into the hold.

Neither man dared to breath. Their entire investment was on the line.

The boy's eyes snapped open.


	7. Chapter 7

" _In a Tier 0 Contact situations, extreme caution cannot be overstated._

 _Force composition is key. Trained Nullification Units and advanced military grade proxies (Bursa/Jackal Class Minimum) should be deployed to contain the site, and - if necessary - neutralise potential threats prior to any successful material extraction. Overwhelming force is considered mandatory._

 _Void Exposure is likely. Handling teams may experience disorientation, inclement elemental fluctuations and temporal distortions of a particularly unusual and distressing nature; potentially fatal._

 _Failure to follow these steps risks a catastrophic loss of life and material."_

\- Corpus Navy Field Manual: On the Containment of Tier 0 Assets

* * *

The boy bolted upright, yelling.

Telin and Kelpo leapt back, yelling in turn.

Scattered, delirious; the boy ranted; almost frenzied. His knuckles stiffened on either sides of the pod as hunched forward; stricken.

He blinked, caught himself. An unnerving calmness washed over him in an instant.

The boy took one look around.

Then he spied the two panicked scavengers, all but pressing themselves against the far wall.

The boy took another look around, twisting about in the golden casket. He noted the blood flecked on the walls, the small minefield of discarded equipment and broken teeth. The scorch marks on the walls, and the frost that crept into the edges of the chamber, petering out only around the lingering heat generated by the Statis Pod.

"Oh." he said at last.

The two scavengers didn't dare breath.

The boy fixed them with a suspicious glare.

"Who are you?" he asked after a moment, curious "What are you doing here?"

He blinked again, looking down at his hands, turning them over. They seemed unfamiliar to him.

"What am _I_ doing here?"

Telin mumbled something. Kelpo managed to cough a little blood against the inside of his helmet.

Telin rallied first.

"Uh… we're a rescue team." He cleared his throat, somewhat theatrically. "Here to save you."

The boy's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He took in the carnage all about the pod once more.

"Distressing." He remarked absently.

The boy pointed at the three dead men strewn about the chamber. Each had suffered a grievous head wound. If the carnage bothered him, the boy didn't show it.

"These men?" he asked. "They too formed part of the rescue effort?"

The boy stood up. He was tall for his age, though still only as high as Telin's shoulder.

"Uh… no. They were, erm… thieves." Telin coughed. "Hoping to steal something they had no rightful claim on."

The boy approached each of the bodies in turn; picking the scene apart with a practiced serenity that bordered on the disturbing. The boy's manner of speech was very particular; the enunciation clipped but perfect; the word selection _just so_.

"Facial wounds." He crouched over Wen's body. "Consistent with a thrown weapon of immense force; a Glaive perhaps."

He spied the drone hovering in the air; the damage to one of its hover drives.

"… or perhaps not."

The semi-decapitated drill operator was next. The boy sank to both knees, running a finger over the cauterised head wound; probing it without the slightest degree of hesitation.

"Energy weapon discharge, point blank." The boy cocked his head to one side, clucked his tongue. "Poor marksmanship."

Last was Speyer's body. They had removed the man's helmet to fix Kelpo's own. There was no retrieving the scanning wand. It warbled and shrilled all manner of strange sounds the moment the boy touched it, before shorting out completely.

"This… I have no idea." The boy stood up, turning to address them once more. "You did this?"

The scavengers nodded, meekly.

"And these men… they deserved to die?"

Another collective nod, this one a little numb.

"Good." The boy nodded curtly. "What are your names?"

"Telin Voss."

"Kelpo Marr."

"Well thank you for your assistance, Telin Voss and Kelpo Marr. I'll be going now."

With that, he stepped from the pod and wandered toward the front of the ship. The chamber was freezing, yet the boy was dressed in little more than a form fitting sleeper suit and a respirator, and pottered about the place without even the slightest sign of discomfort.

The two scavengers mutely followed, entirely unsure what to do. Part of their distress was the _strangeness_ emanating from the boy. Suit readouts flickered and danced; showing crazed, non-sensical readings. The air itself seemed to crackle with static intent.

They found the boy standing before the frozen lump at the center of the ship.

He frowned up at them; finally appearing the slightest bit distressed.

"Where am I?" the boy ask quietly.

"Sector 2-12; edge of the Frozen Wastes." Kelpo replied.

"No, no…" the boy shook his head impatiently. "I mean… what planet are we on?"

"Venus." Telin replied, incredulous.

"You don't remember?" Kelpo asked.

"Not the faintest thing." The boy chuckled softly. "It is funny, you know: I could tell you a thousand things about that room back there. The blood spatter. How and why it arced the way it did. How many rounds were discharged in the fight. The impact trajectory of that single bullet on your environment suit, and the chances of your survival from your facial wound over the next twenty four to thirty six hours."

Kelpo was growing paler by the word, but the boy was simply shaking his head in bafflement.

"But where I am now? How I got here?" he studied his hands again, in seemingly morbid fascination. "Nothing."

"You'd better come with us." Telin said. "We have a ship, not far from here. But others are coming. Men with guns."

"I am not afraid." The boy countered boldly.

"Sure, but you'll freeze." Kelpo started.

The boy's eyes were suddenly hard.

"Do I appear cold?" the boy asked severely. "Does anything in my demeanour suggest a material craving for warmth? Is all you see a small child, looking to be sheltered?"

"Uh… no." Kelpo mumbled, entirely creeped out by the angry Pod-child by this point.

"Good. You said we were being hunted. Tactical response is clear. We cannot stay here." He was already clambering out of the hole when he stopped and turned. "I trust you men have a plan?"

Telin and Kelpo looked at each other blankly.

"We're working on it." They said in unison.

The boy scowled, and disappeared into the freezing beyond without a second word.

* * *

The _Severance Package_ drifted toward the dig site. Far below, the extractor skiff sat on the snow. The crew and the surviving drilling technician were being debriefed by a selection of his men groundside.

Kahrl Bravic listened to their report over the com line.

Three men dead. A drill rig heavily damaged by way of a hasty extraction. No cargo retrieved.

A total loss.

There was no point in punishing the survivors. People were assets; his drill team some of the best at what they did. Out here on the frontier, replacing the dead would prove difficult. Bravic was not above punishing incompetence, but beyond Wen and Speyer, his team had been salvagers first, mercenaries second.

Not so his Kill Team. They were an assembly of his best: trackers, bounty hunters, assaulters and assassins. A mishmash of hired guns and retired military specialists. Bravic kept them on payroll; an expensive edition to his stable, sure; but valuable for certain delicate situations.

Situations like now. Bravic wanted blood.

Two no-name scav-rats did not get the luxury of denying him a Tier 0 Find and living to tell the tale.

His Chief Hunter was a retired Index gladiator; Terrenus Vern.

Vern was not the most imposing figure at first glance; average build, non-descript beyond a tight lipped grimace and a mirrored set of range-finder goggles. He was a hunter of prudence; utterly dedicated to the task of finding and ending people's lives. True to his reputation, the man was a walking collection of ammo belts, stored drones, firearms of all classes; throwing knives and grenades. Anything to get the job done, body count be damned.

Bravic watched from an observation gantry as Vern prowled the aft crew deck now, addressing his team:

"Targets are Freelance Salvage Brokers; names are Kelpo Marr and Telin Voss." Vern's voice was a throaty rasp. "Linking you relevant trade history now."

Five hunters stood in loose assembly before him. Vern had led the team for years; had built it from the ground up. A duel here, a contract acquisition there. Each were hand-picked for a given role; chosen killers all.

"No formal military training, but qualified survivalists and scrappers." Vern was ticking off points on his fingers. "They are physically fit. They are resourceful. They are _profit motivated_. This is their terrain, not ours. Do _not_ underestimate them."

"Notable cargo?" That was their Moa Runner, Ladahr. In the field Ladahr oversaw the deployment of their automated proxies; a customised pack of bipedal robots intended to overrun and overwhelm fleeing prey. He was swathed in heavy furs, which covered a high-tech hard-suit below. A full-faced set of VR-Goggles allowed him to see through the eyes of each and every proxy; sometimes multiple at a time.

"A Tier 0 artefact has been identified on site. Separate teams will be deployed for their retrieval."

"Amateurs." scowled Brakarr, a hulking Grineer Bombard.

" _Allies_." Vern corrected severely. "There's to be no friendly fire. Penalties will apply. We're not paid to torch our own. Understood?"

Brakarr snarled, but bowed his head in deference. The single largest member of the team, the Grineer mercenary had been the hardest to recruit; a towering gene-brute whose love of advanced Corpus prosthetics outshone any traditional loyalty to the Twin Queens. Brakarr forwent any contract pay; asking instead for only the most advanced ordnance and the regular means to deploy it.

Vern continued.

"A Sleeper Pod was noted amongst the salvage claim. Potentially a third target; yet to be confirmed."

"Alive or dead, Surah?" asked Parson-Luk of Ur; their Ostron tracker. His earrings jangled as he scratched at the back of his scalp; a nervous tick that vanished while on a hunt.

Vern turned to look up at Bravic. Bravic shrugged expansively.

"Whatever works. Boss just wants the job done, and quickly. This is time sensitive." Vern met each of their eyes in turn. "We don't drop balls for Anyo Corp. Not now, not ever."

"Confirmation of payment terms." Torr Bycek; their designated rifleman. He wore the regulation box helmet of a Corpus crewman. Less regulation was the truly massive Opticor beam cannon held in his hands.

"One hundred thousand credits to a man upon mission completion. Five hundred thousand credits per confirmed kill." Vern pointed at Bycek's rifle. "Disintegration will require confirming scope footage, Torr."

"And if the Sleeper wakes, and must be found?" asked the final member of the team, her voice a deathly whisper that somehow carried. "What price will you pay?"

A pale skinned, slight figure, the girl was plainly dressed in a dark crimson body suit; seemingly indifferent to the climate. A black shawl framed her slender face; drenching it in shadow. She carried no weapons of any kind.

Isolde, the newest member of the team. Even Vern found her unnerving.

"One million credits." Kahrl Bravic boomed from the catwalk above. " _Even."_

The hunters looked at each other, murmuring. Even Isolde raised an eyebrow.

Vern clapped his hands, once. The team snapped to attention.

"I have your attention. Good. We've a job to do. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Good. Let's get to work."


	8. Chapter 8

" _There are risks to employing freelancers. There are any number of variables, and with those variables; potential outcomes. They can prove expensive. They can prove reliable. They may have a particular value, or a unique skillset, but no two are alike._

 _Far too often, they are trouble."_

\- Teachings of the Free Market, Collected Thoughts of Frohd Bek, Third Edition

* * *

They hesitated at the top of the ice shaft. The boy was delaying them now.

He lingered at the narrow gap leading back to the ruined space craft. They had been careful to sweep the ground behind them; masking the trail as best they could. They had not survived this long in the Frozen Sector without learning a few tricks.

"Kid, we need to move." Telin warned. "You said it yourself."

"This feels wrong. I am forgetting _something_." The boy's hands balled in frustration as he looked up at them, eyes wide and suddenly helpless. "Something important."

Any pity Telin felt was quickly overwhelmed by the thrum of propulsion drives. Multiple landing craft, on an approach vector. Full burn. They were almost on top of them.

Kelpo didn't waste time debating. He was already fitting the boy with a descent harness; cinching its straps with thinly disguised panic.

* * *

Landing barges kissed down simultaneously; grav-drives kicking up a tumult of swirling snow. Scavengers bundled out in wet splashes; boots squelching in pools of melting coolant. Above, out-riders and aerial drones flitted through the howling wind, search lights piercing the gloom.

The _Severance Package_ lurked in the sky above; an ominous shadow on the Venusian sky.

A full complement of the _Severance's_ crew had been deployed; every able bodied man and woman not actively manning a station. Climbing lines were staked around the access tunnel leading down to the crash site. Scouting drones led the charge, and a dozen scavengers followed; smoke steaming from rebreathers as they fast-roped down. Others set up a perimeter, distributing pulsing flares and marking landing zones for further reinforcements; waving glowing marshalling wands that strobed in the darkness.

Vern and his hunters strode through the chaos at their own pace, indifferent to the surrounding bustle.

The two largest of the group were the lumbering Grineer, Brakarr; and the Moa Master Ladahr.

The Corpus master of hounds rode a small bipedal walker; a large cage rattling behind it. The cage contained two parallel lines of dangling puppets, who rattled in their moorings with each lurching stride

The Hunters stopped by the yawning hole in the surface of the ice. Vern addressed them quickly, yelling above the surrounding din.

"The Frozen Sectors are vast. Our quarry arrived here on a ship. Ladahr; sweep the area with your Moa. I want it found! Bycek, you're with him."

Ladahr's walker took two hunching steps backward. The cage on the back opened up, whirring as it lowered out six stalker-pattern Moa onto the steaming ground. Ladahr unbuckled a Lecta energy whip from his belt; holding it aloft. He snapped it to life and cracked the whip against the ground. It sparked and crackled. The Moa shrilled as they activated.

Torr Bycek clambered into the empty cage, which folded into a rear saddle. His Opticor unfolded with a mechanical clack as he buckled himself in. The two men often functioned as a unit.

They both saluted, and vanished into the storm; the Moa bounding before them like ravenous pack hounds. Vern watched them go.

"The rest of you, with me."

* * *

The descent proved difficult.

The boy did not lack for confidence, but he was physically frailer than his stern demeanour suggested. He was no match for the two scavengers, in terms of field craft. Soon he was a good five metres above them, and falling behind.

"Keep pace, boy!" Telin growled. "They'll be on us in no time; the speed you're moving."

"I am trying!" the boy shot back, face screwed in determination. "And stop calling me boy!"

The scavengers for their part moved too slowly for their own liking. They were battered and bruised; badly wounded in Kelpo's case. Kelpo offered no complaint; primarily because doing so proved far too painful. His ravaged face flared from the pinch of the biting cold. Instead he focused on the mechanical movement. On routine and experience. Play out the line. Find purchase with your feet, inch downward; repeat.

There was no choice. The sounds of engines had long since faded, which meant only one thing.

Their pursuers had landed, and they were out of time.

"The trail begins here, _Surah_." Parson-Luk knelt by snow melt surrounding the damaged space craft; sniffing the ground. Their prey had covered their tracks well: the snow looked clean, unblemished. But there were few trails the Ostron trapper could not follow. The planets changed; the terrain along with it. His senses never did.

The Ostron picked his way across the chamber. He barely left a trace on the snow as he moved; a stark contrast to the meandering churn the salvage crews left as they teemed over the ruined ship; securing tethers and preparing the ship for extraction. Vern went to follow, but for a tug at his sleeve.

"A moment, Terrenus."

Few were permitted to call Vern by his first name. Isolde was one such exception.

Brakarr stood guard as Vern and Isolde clambered inside the ruined ship.

"They've moved on from here." Vern murmured, "The Ostron has the scent."

"Parson-Luk has one method; I another." Isolde replied, running an almost sentimental hand down the ruined ship's walls as she walked. "Two paths, converging on the same destination. Have I ever failed you?"

Vern knew better than to doubt the Void witch. He followed.

They found themselves before the empty casket.

"Behold, the Sleeper has woken." Isolde smiled sadly, "His Dream is now ended."

"We're wasting time."

"Patience, Terrenus. Indulge me."

Isolde knelt before the golden casket, folding her hands across her chest. She closed her eyes.

The walls of the chamber began to sweat. The very air itself crackled, threatened to tear.

Her lips began to move.

* * *

The boy had halted. They were a long way down the shaft, and had been making good time. Even the boy had found his rhythm. There was still so much farther to go.

Now this. Telin only noticed when he looked up and spied the boy; frozen in his tracks. The boy stared up, unmoving.

"Boy." Telin whispered up at him. "What's wrong. Boy!"

"Shh!" the boy hissed.

"Answer me!"

" _Listen_."

Telin listened. He heard the lingering plop of condensation in the chamber. He heard the distant rumble of landing craft circling the dig site. Closer still, he heard Kelpo's rasped breathing; his own, laboured from the arduous descent.

Beyond that, nothing.

Snarling, Telin clambered up level with the boy. The boy stared rapt withal; his eyes staring a million miles away.

"Snap out of it, kid." Telin gave him a shake. "This is no time to be going squirrelly on me now."

"You don't hear it, do you?" the boy sighed in breathless wonder. Tears sparkled in his eyes.

"Hear what?!"

The boy smiled as he wept openly.

"The _music_."

* * *

If Isolde made a sound, Vern certainly couldn't hear it.

He coughed and started when he discovered blood pattering down his front. The hunter swiped at his nose and stepped hastily from the chamber, distancing himself from her arcane mutterings.

Outside proved no different. All around the ship, work crews staggered groggily. Some in wonderment; others clutching their heads as though experiencing a keen and sudden migraine. Many vomited within their suits, and doubled over; choking. Perimeter lights flickered on and off. High on the surface, even Ladahr's pack units suffered a momentary spasm of confusion, temporarily losing their stride and tumbling head over heels before recovering scrappily.

Only Brakarr seemed unaffected. He had worked with Isolde in the field before. After their first mission together, his fee request had been singular:

Void dampeners, the most expensive available.

"Our Witch sings?" The Bombard rumbled.

Vern nodded groggily, collecting himself. His com bead hissed raw static in his ear. He unplugged it, trudging his way to where the Ostron crouched patiently in the shadows; visible only by the merest glint of the teeth encircled the neck of his primitive furs. The Grineer enforcer followed, plodding heavily through the snowdrift.

"Report." Vern grunted, finally recovered.

"They mask the scent, _Surah_ ; but the Void… it leaves a taste." The Ostron reached forward and swept aside a seemingly innocuous snow drift.

Hidden behind it was a narrow crawl space.

"See how it reveals them so."

* * *

Telin was moments from slapping the kid when a spotlight blazed to life at the height of the shaft.

Telin's heart froze in his throat. They were exposed, their only available cover: a jutting spar of metal; some forgotten section of ancient wreckage.

The light swept from left to right, spearing toward them.

Telin grabbed the kid and swung to the left, feet braced. He slammed an ice pick into the far wall; wincing at the sharp crack as it impacted.

The light snapped off. Telin and the boy were eye to eye; the boy blinking as he finally snapped out of it. They stared at each other in terror, almost nose to nose. The only sound Telin felt in the dark was the terrified hammering of his own heart.

Then something yanked the boy's cable upward, jerking them both out of cover. Telin spun and slammed bodily into the wall; stubbornly clinging to the boy's harness. The beam snapped on again, bathing them in damning light.

Something took hold of his own cable, and started hauling it upward.

Whatever it was, it was immensely strong. They might as well have been on a motorised winch. Kelpo looked up, aghast; as his companions were pulled steadily toward the blazing light.

Telin fumbled with the utility harness attached to his rigging. One handed, he produced a knife and began frantically sawing at the boy's cable. Eventually it frayed, then snapped entirely. The weight on Telin's own harness increased exponentially; tightening against his ribs and legs. Crushing the wind out of him. The survival knife tumbled from his fingers.

Telin didn't have time to think of anything else. His next response was instinctual.

He took a firm grip of the ice pick. Then he unsnapped his harness.

They fell.

Telin swung the pick; striking again and again. It never bit.

Their heart-stopping fall suddenly came to a bone-jolting halt.

Kelpo had Telin's harness with his free hand; all but dislocating his arm in the process.

Kelpo howled through mangled lips. Kelpo Marr was as strong as an ox, but there was no way he could hold their combined weight. Telin twisted about in the harness with no purchase, no angle at which to help.

The boy appeared in view. He clambered up onto Kelpo's harness, in a surge of spry agility. Somehow, he had produced the survival knife Telin had dropped.

Telin watched the boy sawing through Kelpo's cable. Telin's eyes bulged in horror.

"Kid _what_ are you -"

The cable snapped.


	9. Chapter 9

" _There are many things that please an Ostron, Surah. Credits are one. Good company to spend them with are another. But most of all?_

 _The Hunt. Always The Hunt."_

\- Parson-Luk of Cetus, on life's simple pleasures.

* * *

Telin and Kelpo fell screaming in the dark. The floor of the dark pit below rushed toward them. Telin squeezed his eyes shut. Braced himself.

Telin felt a hand grip the furred hem of his suit with unnatural strength.

A gale force wind blasted them sideways, hurling them to one side. The grip on his suit released.

They landed in a side tunnel feeding the lower echelons of the main ice shaft; hitting the ground with bone jolting force, tumbling end over end.

Telin took in a terror stricken breath in as he rolled onto his back, patting himself, wiggling his toes.

He had been deposited; no, _thrown_ some ten feet down the side passage. He could feel every bump and bruise and ache and sore, but mercifully, he was alive; mercifully, unparalysed. Kelpo sprawled a few metres down, groaning but alive.

It was a miracle. Or perhaps not.

The boy stood tall in the gloom, looking down at them. His wide eyes glowied with an ethereal blue fire. It was the only light source in the dim chamber. The very air around him seemed to shimmer and warp.

Telin shrank back in terror.

"Void Demon!" he gibbered.

As suddenly as it appeared, the maelstrom enveloping the boy evaporated. His eyes rolling back in his head as he flopped to the floor, shivering.

Stillness reigned. The boy lay there, limp and still and very much the young man he physically appeared to be; scarcely into his teens.

The two scavengers kept their distance.

Void touched.

It was a forbidden thing.

You heard the stories as a child. Strange realms beyond the furthest stretches of the Solar Rail; where time and space and the natural order no longer applied. A twilight realm of eldritch power; where men lost their minds and eyeless horrors reached out from the chittering dark; to pluck children from their beds.

It was a nonsense to Telin. An old wives tale; used to scare traders and their corpus into being good little workers. A fantasy.

And yet it rang true. By every metric it was true.

Telin and Kelpo looked at the unconscious boy. He seemed a pitiful thing now, broken and small.

But for their ragged breathing and the echoing whisper of the tunnels around them, there was no sound.

"What do we do?" Telin asked eventually.

"Can't leave him here." Kelpo rasped. "Not like this."

"Boy is cursed." Telin hated the superstitious quiver in his voice. "We're in way over our heads here."

"Cursed or not; he saved our skins." Kelpo countered, coughing. His face had become unusually drawn and pale as he looked at Telin. "I can't carry him alone."

"You okay?"

"Been worse." Kelpo grimaced.

"That's a lie."

"Oh absolutely." Kelpo coughed. "But whinging about it isn't gonna help."

"You rest up. I'll carry him."

Telin approached the kid gingerly, placing a hand on the boy's forehead. Despite the environment, the boy's forehead proved warm to the touch; even through Telin's insulated glove.

He carefully started picking the boy up, groaning. Kid or not, the boy wasn't exactly tiny either.

"Void Demons, angry mercs; pit falls..." Telin seethed as he shrugged the boy over his shoulder. "Our fee just went up."

* * *

Brakarr pulled the line hand over mechanical hand; hauling a tangled knot of abandoned harnesses into the light beaming down from the spot-lamps set into his war rig. The empty harness twirled in the wind. He cast the line aside with a snarl as Parson-Luk chuckled.

"Good _Utz_ ," the Ostron chuckled, admiring their prey's tenacity and the Grineer's frustration in equal measure. "Only worthy prey chews from the snare."

Vern keyed his com bead.

"Isolde. Status?"

"They live." The girl replied. Vern was thankful she had the courtesy to use the com rather than answering in his head. "But the Sleeper's Dream begins to fade."

"Translation?" Vern's voice was impatient.

Isolde studied the central column of the ruined star ship. The recovery techs were in the process of stripping the melted biomass from the wreck; peeling its layers and steadily revealing the true outline of the war machine beneath.

"Ladahr and Bycek will need to be quick."

* * *

Ladahr Morval, Master of Moa, leaned into the wind, squinting past the visual artefacts the atmospherics inflicted on his visor. His charges swept wide in a hunting pattern; scanners flitting over the ice and rock. He would need to keep a close eye on their handling in such extreme conditions.

They had all but completed a 5 kilometre radius around the insertion point; making good time in spite of the harsh terrain. The Moa were agile bipeds, with birdlike intelligence. Each were heavily customised; carrying a variety of onboard weaponry suited for multi-purpose force deployment. This granted Ladahr tactical flexibility, but the units themselves could prove squirrelly because of it.

Particularly in these conditions. Surface temp was as cold as it got on Venus. Most of the planet was burning hot; vast swatches of molten rock swathed in drifts of imported coolant. The coolant mines formed a major part of Venus' local economy. The Orokin had seeded certain areas with ancient technology; arcane engines embedded deep within the planet's surface which permitted the altogether more primitive efforts the Corpus employed. The majority of the planet formed an unusual tableau of extreme contrast: as floating glaciers drifted over the barren landscape, slamming down into the ground and rendering the planet habitable.

The arcane engines that powered these unique phenomenon led to rare pockets of microclimates; such as the Frozen Zone they hunted in now. The snow itself was primitive coolant, that had long since morphed into its own unique property.

Drone 4 was experiencing sensor fluctuations. The hunter let it slide initially, but now they were affecting field performance beyond acceptable efficiency thresholds. Enough. Ladahr brought his scouting mech to a halt, hopping down and keying a series of instructions into a control slate. The affected Drone chirped and trotted over obediently.

Torr Bycek dismounted from the rear cage as well, glad to be stretching his legs. He trudged uphill towards an overlook point, his trademark beam cannon in his hands.

The two often worked together in the field; rifleman and outrider. Sniper and spotter.

Bycek seldom spoke. That suited Ladahr. He was better with machines than people.

Ladahr busied himself with the repairs; popping open the offending ocular lens on the drone and humming tunelessly as he worked; the sound all but lost in the storm around him. An old habit, it helped him tune everything out. All distractions.

Ladahr was still humming when Bycek tapped him on the shoulder.

"Over here." It was a veritable speech by Bycek's standards. "Found something."

The two hurried to the top of the outcrop.

The vista below was all but snatch-stolen by the churning gusts of snow. But between Bycek's advanced scope and Ladahr's scouting optics, there was something there. Hidden at the base of the valley, by an old tunnel. Ladahr tapped a series of commands into his belt.

The Moa took positions on all sides of the valley, training their viewfinders at the base of the tunnel. Ladahr saw what they saw through the visor. Multiple angles, full spectrum analysis.

A camo tent, scrappily erected around a small, two man skimmer. A low budget model by all accounts. _A rental,_ Ladahr sneered. The netting was mag-shielded, designed to hide a parked ship from unwelcome attention. The snow rendered it all but invisible in the howling storm.

"Good eyes, Torr." Ladahr hissed, clapping him on the back.

Bycek grunted. He was already settling into a firing position.

Ladahr hurried back to his walker, snatching up the bulky field set from the dashboard.

"Vern, this is Ladahr." The Master of Moa sent. "Piping coordinates to your position."

Another flurry of commands marshalled his drones. The Moa slunk forward, settling into the snowy hills overlooking the tunnel entrance. All but invisible but for the tips of their spy lenses.

"We have them."


	10. Chapter 10

" _Set-backs in any venture are to be expected; nay, anticipated._

 _The mark of a successful trader is not how they handle times of plenty, but rather the opposite. Adversity, in all its many forms, is where one's true character is revealed. Survival in such times requires many qualities._

 _Courage, creativity… and perhaps above all others… tenacity."_

\- Ergo Glast, former Corpus financier and scientist

* * *

They inched their way through the tunnels, their progress agonisingly slow.

Telin only focused on the next step in front of him. Between his loaded pack and the weight of the boy, his shoulders burned. Routine became essential; simple mechanical process. One foot in front of the other. The thought of the fee claim, of revenge against the thieving scum drove each step.

Kelpo started to fall behind. Twice he had stopped to catch his breath.

Telin set the boy down carefully, turning to look at his friend.

Kelpo held himself upright; one hand braced against the tunnel wall. The other encircled his ribs, tenderly. After a moment, he pressed his back to the wall, eventually sliding down into a slump; head bowed. The man's breathing came ragged; air filters rasping in the dark.

"He needs rest." The boy had appeared at his side now, rubbing his eyes groggily. "Kelpo Marr's wounds have not reacted well to Void Exposure."

"We can't afford to stop. Our ship is hidden, but a crew that size isn't gonna take our escape lying down. We need to get back to the one of the outposts."

"Be that as it may, Kelpo Marr requires rest."

Kelpo flapped a hand at them.

"S'alright." He slurred. The crude bandages holding his face together were peeling. His skin had paled to an ashen grey. "Just gimme a sec."

Then Kelpo's head lolled to the side, listless.

The boy crouched beside Telin, studying Kelpo. The stocky scavener's face was a bloody mess; his wounds having reopened during their tumbling descent.

"How far is your ship?" the boy asked, brow knitted.

"Not far. A klick, maybe less."

"Too far in his present condition. We camp here."

The boy's commanding tone proved too much for Telin. He brusquely grabbed the boy by the shoulder, rounding on him.

"Now listen here, kid." the Scavenger snapped. " _You_ don't give the orders here. We found _you_. Your ship? _Our_ find. You? You're a _rescue fee_."

With detached serenity the boy took a simple hold of Telin's wrist. He squeezed, ever so slightly; with anatomical precision.

Telin yelped as white hot pain lanced through his arm. The boy spoke slowly, icily calm:

"Two things to remember, Telin Voss." The boy's voice was level, matter of fact; "First, touch me again and you will draw back a stump. Second, do not speak to me that way. Not once, not ever. Do you understand?"

Telin hissed but nodded. The death-grip released. The pain vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"You are welcome to your finders fee. I do not begrudge a man his income. Indeed, I would pay it myself, present resources notwithstanding."

The boy resumed examined Kelpo's wounds, as matter of fact as ever:

"We achieve nothing by bickering. Help me attend to him, or we are both to blame."

Telin unpacked what little remained of their medical supplies, handing them over. Concern for his friend overrode wounded pride.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Telin shook his head, massaging his swollen wrist.

The boy pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had removed Kelpo's faceplate and attended the man's wounds with the same careful precision as ever.

"Truth be told? I can't remember. Our fall earlier, our altercation just now? Instinct; some kind of ingrained muscle memory." The boy shrugged, "It is sufficient for me to understand that I possess a tremendous capacity for physical violence."

"You were trained for this?"

"Evidently."

"And when we fell in the tunnel, what happened?"

"If I could tell you, I most certainly would." The boy never flinched as he peeled Kelpo's bloodied gauzing away. "If it _worries_ you, then rest assured it _terrifies_ me. How does one explain the inexplicable?"

The boy daubed at Kelpo's weeping flesh, holding it together as he strapped the primitive plasters back into place. There was no masking the anxiety in his voice.

"It comes in flashes. Vague premonitions; snatches here and there." The boy wiped anti-septic cream into the bruised flesh massing over Kelpo's ruined eye. "And with those flashes, memories. An Old War, terrible to behold. Entire colonies burned. I am fearful forget; terrified to remember."

The boy shook his head, resolute.

"Ancient history. Dwelling on the past will not help us here in the present." He finished sealing the final bandage, locking Kelpo's visor back in place. "There. That's the last of our supplies. If he moves from here, it will be with our direct assistance."

The boy turned his attention to Telin now.

"Weapon inventory." The boy said. "Show me."

Telin grudgingly unslung his pack, setting it between them. He laid out its contents carefully.

The boy picked over it smoothly. First the snub nosed pistol. He turned it over in his hands, scrutinising it. He popped out the magazine, re-secured it expertly. Then he pulled back the slide, inspecting it for blockages. Satisfied, he set it down. There were no spare magazines; its ammunition painfully limited.

Then he looped the grenades into the straps of Telin's carry pack, for easy access. The knuckle duster was next, looking massive over his small hand.

Telin watched the boy work, an icy feeling in his gut.

The boy frowned. There was something missing. He fixed Telin with a look.

"You are carrying a knife. Your left boot, secreted away. Give it here, please."

The knife was well hidden. How could he possibly know?

Telin handed it over without further protest.

The boy unfurled a grey emergency blanket from the pack; throwing it about his shoulders like a poncho. The wicked blade served as a makeshift broach.

"Shouldn't I get a weapon?" Telin asked.

"That cutting beam you carry will suffice, Telin Voss. You were not designed for war."

The boy spoke with a measure of himself now.

"You will have to carry him; for all my training, I lack your physicality. I do not know these tunnels, or indeed what has become of the world beyond. You will guide me from this place. In return, I will ensure you and your friend's survival."

"Can't argue with that." Telin grunted, sparing a glance at Kelpo's sorry state.

The boy stood up, his makeshift poncho flapping in the wind; the pack looped with grenades seeming huge on his slight frame.

"And if they try to stop us?" Telin asked.

The boy's voice was hard as he looked at Telin directly.

"Well." The boys eyes flashed ever so slightly. "You have your skills. I have mine."

* * *

The loading teams stood back from the dig site as the end of the chains clacked into view. The Liset twisted in the open air, suspended like a speared shark. The storm was beginning to clear.

Vern and the rest of his team watched it as the ancient ship was cinched to the belly of the _Severance Package._ Isolde seemed to take particular pity on the ancient spaceship. Parson-Luk rested a weathered hand on her shoulder and gave it a slight shake, breaking her from her reverie.

"Time to go." Vern said. "Loading team has done their job. Now we finish ours."

They clambered onto an open top assault skimmer. The ship was kitted with all manner of net launchers, rocket pods and beam projectors. Vern took the pilot's seat; the brutish Grineer occupying most of the rear seating with his sheer bulk.

They shot off into the distance, closing on the beacon where Ladahr and Bycek lay carefully in wait.

* * *

"This way." Telin huffed, one eye on the map. "Not far now."

The tunnel mouth was just ahead. It fed into a small bowl gulley. At the far end of the valley, trussed under the soaked sheeting of a flapping camo net, lay their salvation.

Telin forced himself forward, lugging Kelpo.

The boy walked beside them, pistol low at his side. He stopped at the cave mouth; peering across the horizon, eyes narrowed in suspicion. The snow coated hills loomed around them.

"Wait." The boy cautioned.

Telin waited. Nothing but howling wind and drifting gusts of snow. Ahead, the landing skimmer waited. The flapping camo netting flapped at them, seemingly beckoning Telin closer. The scavenger shook his head.

The scavenger started forward once more, shrugging as he adjusted his grip on Kelpo.

The boy called out to him, again, voice lost to the wind.

Heedless, Telin kept shuffling forward.

* * *

"Target sighted. Taking the shot." Bycek breathed; snuggling the Opticor rifle tightly against him.

An optical cable ran from the top of the rifle directly into the side of his boxy helmet. He sighted on the battered scavengers.

He pressed the record button on the side of his rifle.

The difficulty with hunting with an Opticor was just that: it was an Opticor. The targets you hit tended to vaporise. Documentation formed an essential part of payment.

The Rec light on the edge of his HUD winked to life.

He grinned and squeezed the trigger.

Telin shuffled forward; focus entirely on putting one foot in front of the other.

The snow was thick in the valley. His boots sank to knee level in places. Telin didn't care. The sight of the drop ship, of salvation, drove him on.

Something smashed into Telin and Kelpo from behind, knocking them flat.

Then he felt the wave of pure heat pass overhead.

The snow around him melted in an instant as the hills behind him exploded in a flash.

Then he heard the keening after-roar of the beam rifle as it split the sky.

The boy had knocked them flat against the ground. The cave mouth beyond became molten slag.

Kelpo awoke with a fitful start. Telin rolled on top of him; a finger jammed over where his mouth would be; interspersed with the occasional throat slashing gesture.

This was no signing cant, or hidden message. It was a very universal, frenzied warning:

Don't move. Don't speak. Don't breathe.

Kelpo nodded, eyes bulging from pure adrenaline. Telin glanced about, a hasty plan forming. He turned to the boy.

Who was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Bycek frowned, rising from his firing position in surprise. The shot had been on target. Scope calibration showed no change in trajectory. His aim had been true. The scavengers had been there one second, and were gone the next. But there were no scattered body parts, no strewn boots or descending ashfall common with a successful strike.

Bycek unplugged the optical cable; examining the impact area with the naked eye.

The cave mouth was gone. Steam rose in a tremendous plume over the mountainside; revealing charred rock once buried for centuries. Slush sizzled as it slid over collapsed rock. EMP from the blast wreaked havoc with the optics of Ladahr's drones. Their screens darken momentarily before resetting.

Torr Bycek frowned once more, ran the playback. There were the targets. Centre mass, a clean sighting.

Then a blur; a snatch of visual artefacts on the scope feed. The shot fires.

Bycek replayed it again, at a fraction of the speed. He thumbs the clip forward manually, frame by frame.

The shape moves too quickly to be natural. It is energy, incorporeal. It hits the two men with blinding speed. It is not of any fixed form or speed that he can discern.

The truth of it only becomes visible by the time his target falls into the heaped snow. A pico-second.

Bycek presses pause on the clip. He backs up to the moment in question.

It is a boy. He is young, barely a teenager. A shock of dark hair and pale skin. His face is masked by an ornate rebreather, but beyond that his skin is entirely exposed to the perilous elements, seemingly without consequence.

The boy is looking directly at Bycek. The unremitting fury in the young man's eyes causes Bycek to blink and close the playback window entirely.

Bycek felt a sharp intake of breath. A jolting coolness in his chest. He looked down.

There was a knife buried in his sternum. Blood pooled out across the front of his environment suit; soaking the insulated fabric.

"Oh." He managed in faint surprise.

The sniper toppled forward, dead before he even hit the ground.

* * *

Ladahrr saw Bycek's vitals flatline at the very same moment he realised their quarry survived the alpha strike.

The Master of Moa's walker was hull down between a series of boulders, superbly camouflaged. He tapped in a duo of commands. The Moa walkers burst from concealed positions, their keening shrill rending the air. From six angles of attack they dart forward, converging from the hills above.

Three small objects flitted through the air. Ladahr's eyes are good. He saw the grenades, his brain not quite registering them as possible. Their trajectory was improbable, their scattering all too wide to come from a single origin point.

They are not thrown. By some unknown force, they are guided.

A trio of airbursts rend the sky. Two of the Moa go dark instantly; scattered across the hills in component pieces.

A sharp series of gunshots fells a third; a fourth. He hears a pistol clack empty.

One of the scavengers burst forth from the snow. He was holding a primitive plasma cutter, yelling unintelligibly. He was a sitting duck.

The surviving Moa screech and bounded toward him. What happened next defied all conventional logic.

A boy popped into existence between the Moa, hands raised either side; appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Now Ladahar knew he was losing his mind.

The air displaced between the boy and the two Moa; sending them flying in separate directions. One tumbled gracelessly in front of the yelling scavenger. He scythed the plasma cutter down in a ruthless arc, silencing it.

The last remaining Moa was still recovering when the boy raised a hand. A pulse of arcane power split the very universe; bursting the drone's skull. It toppled headless to the snow, flitting sparks.

Ladahr wrestled with the controls of his walker. Every drone feed on his goggle display was dark. Void Energy readings maxed out on every scale; playing havoc with his instrumentation.

There was a break in the carnage. The boy collapsed to his knees, exhausted; alone and exposed in the open. The scavenger with the plasma torch could only look on. This was the hunter's chance.

Ladahr's walker tore forward. He primed every onboard weapon system. Electrified net launchers; missile volleys, cutting beams; the arsenal was appreciable. He prepared to fire all of them. They were not intended to be fired simultaneously. Doing so was possible, but required every ounce of his considerable skill, every shred of his determined concentration.

It is understandable then that he did not see Kelpo Marr perched, on the rocky outcrop Torr Bycek once occupied; grey-faced but resolutely determined.

Nor did he see the Opticor primed in his hands.

The Opticor is a Corpus anti-material rifle. It is intended for the comprehensive destruction of high-value targets; substituting rate of fire and ease of field deployment in favour of overwhelming single shot firepower. It is not an easy to use weapon for the untrained; possessing tremendous recoil, heavy weight and complicated optical software.

Kelpo Marr was entirely ignorant of these limitations. He was an untrained shooter. Moreover, he was physically impaired, almost delirious from a combination of blood lose, hypothermia and bruised ribs. The strain of his hasty climb had all but overtaken him.

Under such strenuous conditions and adverse circumstances, it was forgivable to miss a target; particularly one target moving at such speed.

No matter. Such was the power of the Opticor, it only required that Kelpo aim in the _general direction_ of the target.

The Master of Moa didn't have time to scream as the beam enveloped the walker; wiping it from existence. The walker's ammunition stores cooked off in a mushroom cloud visible from miles around.

Kelpo Marr for his part collapsed, overcome by the sudden exertion.

* * *

The signs of the battle were visible fully a kilometre out before they touched down.

The camo tent was gone, and with it, the ship it so carefully concealed.

Vern's team fanned out across the wreckage. Small fires still burned despite the savage cold. Drone parts and smouldering shrapnel decorated the hills around them. Isolde sniffed the air and smiled to herself, tipping her head back and feeling the cool snowflakes kiss against her skin. The cold didn't seem to bother her. Neither did the burning stink of flesh permeating the air.

Parson- Luk found Bycek's body; already half hidden beneath the falling snow.

There was nothing left of Ladahr, but for two mechanical stumps and a greasy smear across the landscape.

Terrenus Vern did not mourn the loss of his men; at least, not outwardly. They were mercenaries. Losing comrades was part of the business But they each saw the set of his jaw, that hardening in his demeanour.

This was personal now.


	11. Chapter 11

_"Never underestimate the competition."_

\- Ergo Glast, of the Perrin Sequence

* * *

Prospect 141.

Stack city. Tithe city. Vice city.

It resembled a gleaming candlestick; one that steadily became more battered and rotten the deeper it descended. The base of the city was entirely metal; a weatherworn criss-crossing trellis of support girders and ribbed pipework; containing entire industries: power stations, flight hangars, habitation stacks. Storm shielding protected the summit of the tower from the violent winds and extreme shifts in hot and cold that plagued the surface of Venus.

Not so the lower stacks. These were of wrought iron and steel gantry; decaying. The sheer volume of metal kept it upright. Squashed between landing bays and acid-stained grain silos lived entire communities; vertical slums where the lowest in Corpus society huddled, simply grateful to have somewhere to eke out an existence; however miserable. There was no natural light here. Cold street lights and neon advertising banners cast long shadows on steel streets.

To Telin it was home. There were many ways to make a living in Prospect 141. Working the mining crews had been their parent's way; overseeing the drones and hand-sorting processed materials into refinement bins; serving as cheap labour where cost-cutting measures ensured human hands proved cheaper than the automated crews more prevalent throughout Corpus Society.

Indentured service in the Corpus Navy was another; signing your life away for a comparatively comfortable, if strictly regulated, life among the stars. One's freedom was a small price to pay for a regular meal and a humble stipend.

Telin and Kelpo had chosen another path. Frontier work. Life on the blasted surface was not easy, but it was one of the few honest trades left. An entire economy had been built upon the misery permeating Prospect 141's Low-Stacks. Casinos, extortion rackets; scrappers and mechanists, guns for hire. You could buy it all in Prospect 141, if you had the credits and the standing.

Politically the city was deemed independent. A lie, of course. All elections were corp-approved; and almost universally the realm of the Upper Tier Families. Members of the Corpus Guilds lived isolated lives in their gilded towers high above; interacting with the movers and shakers that rocked the trade ways of the Solar Rail; never once witnessing the squalid underbelly that festered beneath and made it all possible.

Telin and his companion's arrival was not a dramatic one. The city continued to teem with its own frenzied activity, oblivious. Never once did anyone notice the arrival of an overdue, low-rent skimmer; nor did they realise that its arrival would usher in a sequence of events that would change the city forever.

Telin's all but slammed the skimmer into hangar bay 2-12. He popped his restraints; leant over and unclasping Kelpo's. His stocky friend was still out of it, a shadow of his hearty self. The ship was a rental. Its arrival was registered by Tower Control; their return to the city surely documented. They had to go.

The boy was conscious but weak. He was slow to get to his feet. Telin noticed him shiver for the first time. Whatever Void trickery the boy employed in the battle had taxed heavily.

Telin threw an insulated field jacket around the kid's shoulders, audibly fussing. The boy might be a murderous Void Witch, but he was _their_ murderous Void Witch; complete with a generous finders fee.

The only trick was living long enough to collect it.

"C'mon kid, let's go." Telin pulled Kelpo up onto his shoulder once more. "Got a safe place in mind."

The boy followed; coat draped over him like some ridiculous cloak.

A drone buzzed out towards them as they shuffled across the landing dock towards the Arrival gate. It was from the rental company. A series of credit demands flashed at them; pulsing a violent red. Late payment. Overdue invoices. Unacceptable landing protocol. It then began detailing an extensive list of punishments and penalties; up to and including off-world military service.

Telin snarled and waved his credit disc at the drone. Whatever scant few credits he had left vanished in an instant.

Pleased, the drone flushed a fulsome green and bid them a nice day. Telin scowled. That too would be tracked. Telin Voss was no a warrior, but he wasn't stupid either. In the Low Stacks of Prospect 141, a digital trail was a dangerous thing to leave behind.

Battered and bruised, the trio vanished into the jostling crowds of the wider city beyond.

All but invisible beneath the dark shadows of a neon billboard; a hooded figure detached itself from the wall, and followed.

* * *

The _Severance Package_ languished in a holding pattern, one of six similar sized barges awaiting clearance. Behind them the blasted Venusian landscape stretched out; the unending baleful sun causing the floating glaciers to glisten and shine as they drifted over the landscape; serene and alien in equal measure.

Their berth was Anyo-sponsored; strictly Mid-Tier. Most of the ships around them were semi-private crews - mining ships and bulk haulers on long leases, intended for regional travel across the planet's surface. The _Severance_ was the exception, in that it was only privately owned vessel, that also happened to bristle with weaponry. Other crews rubber-necked as the Severance idled beside them; wondering just how such a rangy, mean looking killer could be permitted in their esteemed company.

This section of the city formed a central belt buffering the Upper Tier from the more skeletal, industrial foundations below. The higher the tier, the more prevalent the Corpus iconography, as the patrols became more regular and visible. Viewing galleries looked down upon the idling barges; row after row of cafes, restaurants and other luxuries far beyond the grasp of the average crewman.

Anyo Corp were not the sole controlling Corpus power in Prospect 141. Fortunate Dawn exhibited a significant presence, as did Luxor and several of the other major Guilds. The City Watch were a subsidiary of the Corpus Navy; privately funded by the various stakeholders that controlled the space lanes to and from the colony. While not the largest colony on Venus, Prospect 141 held a peculiar form of significance on Venus: its semi-independent status at the fringes of Corpus society granting it notoriety for being a useful, if somewhat disreputable, place to conduct business.

Kahrl Bravic paced like a caged beast, barking at Teico. His flustered coms officer weathered the constant stream of snarling, suggestions and beratement with considerable aplomb. The crewman tried Tower Control again for the fifteenth time, his finger tapping on the transmit button with thinly disguised panic.

The _Severance's_ presence here was guesswork on Vern's part. The hunter had looked at each of the surface colonies around them, and surmised that their prey would go to ground in the largest encampment within range. Bravic trusted the man.

Terrenus Vern paid no attention to his employer's impatience. Him and his team made ready in the belly of the cargo hold.

With Ladahr and Bycek gone, replacements were required. There were local crews you could sponsor; hired help. Less specialised, cheaper and decidedly expendable. Their quarry had eluded them once, and carved up two of their own in the process. Vern would not underestimate them again.

Sometimes numbers could make all the difference. Vern hired as many as he could afford; confirming their contracts through Disposable Solutions, a low-market broker.

A holographic representation of the city floated before them. Like most Venusian structures; a centralised core contained the central elevators facilitating access to and from varying tiers throughout the city. Communications between ships were heavily monitored, and purchasing landing data was frowned upon, if not entirely illegal. They would have to rely on local contacts for such direct leads.

City hunting was a different prospect to the Venusian wilds.

The Ostron's skills would be of little use without wider strategic input. The trapper's senses were keen, and while his nose was second to none; he found the tangling streets and narrow alleys bewildering.

Brakarr's deployment was similarly limited. Grineer were of the Empire; indistinguishable from the Twin Queen's war machine. The very sight of the hulking Bombard would likely incite a riot. He would have to be held in reserve, until they were sure of their quarry's location; and even then, carefully used.

Therein lay the challenge. They were looking for three targets; two of them locals. Once again, this was their terrain. Vern's team sought a needle, hidden in a stack of needles. A specialised broker was required.

Terrenus Vern was not a man to leave things to idle chance, or local help. He employed every tool at his disposal.

Isolde set the tarot deck carefully on the deck; legs folded beneath her. The Grineer stared blankly from the corner. He was built for war, not parlour tricks.

The Ostron kept his distance, perched atop a packing crate; as superstitious and squirrelly as ever.

The rest of Bravic's crew hung from the rafters and lurked on the gantries above, too curious not to watch. She was of the Touched. Of the Void. More dangerous and exotic than anything they had ever witnessed. Terrenus for his part folded his legs beneath him and joined her sitting on the floor.

The girl shuffled the cards, humming as she worked. She spread three of them out in a single dextrous sweep. The air grew cold throughout the deck; unnaturally so.

Three cards; each bearing a different face. It was not any deck Vern recognised.

"What do you see?" the hunter asked.

"The Nine of Quills. The Four of Chains." She read the cards, tasting each syllable; stroking each in reverent sequence. "Here, the Fool's Eye. Possibility and chaos. Multiple outcomes, intertwined."

She shuffled again. Three more cards set out; two set face down. The third, turned over and revealed. It depicted a young child of indeterminate gender, bathed in light.

"What do you see?" the hunter repeated.

"The Yuvan." The girl murmured. "It represents Youth…Rebirth. An Awakening."

"And the other two?"

Isolde pursed her lips as she held a hand over the cards. The faintest purple glow emanated from her finger tips. She turned them over, one by one.

The first was an Orokin Structure, inverted. Void energies lashed at its base.

"The Tower." Isolde read aloud, "Darkness and destruction on a physical scale."

"And not the city here?" Vern raised an eyebrow.

Isolde paid no heed, utterly absorbed in the process. She turned over the final card.

A grinning skull, stripped of skin.

Isolde stopped for a moment. Eventually, Vern learned forward and asked.

"Tell me what you see, girl."

Isolde looked at him squarely. Her smile was cold.

"Death."

"All very ominous." Brakarr growled, voice rendered mechanical and menacing by his armoured mask. "What purpose does it serve?"

Isolde rose to her feet, walking in a slow circle about the cards. She held her chin upward, proud and defiant as she addressed the hulking Grineer. Beneath the hood, her features were delicate. For one so young, there was a confidence and poise that far belied her physical age.

"The cards are a means to an end. A yardstick by which any wayfarer interpreting the Void can chart their path. Portents can change with sequencing; and with that sequencing, interpretation."

"Parlour tricks and nonsense." Brakarr scoffed.

"My cloned colleague's disdain is noted." Isolde scowled. "But consider the cards; their disposition. Every-changing, fearful. The destruction of order. Finality - speaking to a fear of death; either of the self or a close companion." Isolde indicated each of the cards. "These are a reflection of an emotional state. Our _target's_ emotion state."

"I have seen you do things I thought not possible, Surah." Parson-Luk began, tentatively. "I do not doubt you. But I too must ask; how does this help us track our prey?"

Isolde stood tall, hands clasped behind her back. She spoke calmly yet her voice carried; filling the air with ease.

"Because our target, like me, is Void Touched." Isolde smiled. "He is uncertain. Terrified of a power that is not quite his to control just yet."

"And these cards?" Vern asked, "They can confirm the target's location?"

Isolde shook her head. Isolde's eyes carried what might have been a semblance of pity.

"No, not directly. But the very resonance of the cards tells me enough."

She swept the cards back into the arcane deck, standing upright once more.

"Our target is here, in this city." She addressed the gallery in full.

"And he is afraid."


	12. Interlude: Awakening

"...What they need, Margulis, is to be destroyed! They're devils from that hell, not human anymore."

\- Executor Ballas

* * *

 _Then._

"Isolde!"

She runs to meet them, giggling. Giddy bare feet slap cool smooth decking as she dashes into the open concourse. Golden light streams down from the shutters overhead.

Beyond, the Void trembles and surges, unending.

The other children await her. Five friends, thrown together by life aboard the Orokin vessel. There is Sara, her closest friend and confidant. Impish and playful Sara grins and slaps palms with her adoptive sister. They speak over one another, exchanging breathless gossip at blinding speed.

Solemn Doric shushes them. He is the tallest of the boys; dour and broad shouldered. His ashen skin sets him apart. Kael, the paler boy beside him mutters an aside and the two chuckle privately. Isolde flushes. Sara scowls and swats at him playfully. They squabble. Kael complaining loudly as she tousles his mop of unkempt dark hair.

"Over here."

That is Sohren. He lacks Doric's commanding height but is the oldest of their little corpus. They were a team, separate from the other children aboard the ship.

Every roguish suggestion was Sohren's doing, every grand design, or misadventure or hushed conversation after lights out. He is barely a teenager, yet already carries the beginnings of a man about him. His parents were low within the mighty ship's vast hierarchy.

It does not matter to them. They are children. Hierarchies are naturally created and unconsciously maintained. He is the fastest, the strongest; the most experienced. They all but worship him.

The gang gathers around. Sohren stands by a large oval viewport that dominates the Observation Deck. It is one of the more remote parts of the ship, overshadowed by more central and heavily trafficked viewing galleries.

In normal times the viewport provides a grand view of the swooping lines and graceful golden curves of the ship beyond. It is a vast landscape, seemingly endless. These were not normal times. They are underway, beset on all sides by the swirling energies of the Void.

A Void Expedition, for the Void Era.

The viewport is opaque, a necessary safeguard. It appears to them now as an alabaster mirror, smooth and cool to the touch; It is rimmed by gold; infused with a lacing silver trim.

Only the Grownups had access to the science deck where the windows could be unveiled, and even then only with the strictest of safeguards in. The children never saw those places, mysterious and forbidden.

"What is it?" Kael asks, stepping forward.

"Watch." Sohren simply says. He steps towards the glass. Places his palm against it.

The opaque glass warps to his touch; twisting and folding into a shape. It becomes the outline boy, much like him. A perfect shadow.

The shadow cocks its head to one side. They all scream, all but Sohren. He stares, fascinated. The lights on the deck flicker. A bemused, cold laughter chuckles in the dark, playful yet distorted. Kael grabs his friend, shaking him. Sohren blinks.

The shadow is gone.

Lights restore and the ship thrums as it always has; a comforting ticking rhythm. All is calm again.

The children look at each other.

"Not a word of this to anyone." Sohren warns sternly. "Not even the others."

* * *

Weeks pass. Every day after lessons they gather in the same place where the shadow greeted them. Sohren tries to reveal the shadow once more, to no avail; clapping his hands, slapping the view screen; chanting. He sits down heavily, defeated. Evidently the shadow has found other ways to entertain itself.

But there are still oddities here, on this remote part of the ship. Peculiarities remain.

Doric brings with him a set of handcrafted marbles; an old gift from his Name Day past. The children marvel as the marbles spin and coalesce before the viewport; shifting into unknowable patterns before eventually settling still.

The next day Sara sets out an ayatan spinning top. It turns and spins as normal until it doesn't; abruptly whirling in the opposite direction with maddening speed. They yelp in unison as it shoots out across the room and shatters into a thousand pieces against the far wall.

Their collective yelp is one of delight.

The clandestine experimentation continues. Isolde sets out the tarot set, murmuring in wonder as the same faces reveal themselves time and time again, no matter how many times she shuffles the deck.

The set is new to her, a present from her Mother who served on the science team. An idle gift intended to keep her shy daughter entertained during the long shifts that kept her parents away more often than not. A distraction.

No longer. Now they are set out in sequence before the opaque mirror on the wall. Isolde's nervous reflection stares back at her as she turns each card over in sequence.

The other children stoop over her, craning in for a closer look. She sets the final card down.

The same sequence, every time. No matter how many times she shuffles and reshuffles the cards, there they were; staring back at her.

The Nine of Quills. The Four of Chains. The Fool's Eye. The Tower, inverted.

And finally, Death.

Isolde scrutinises the sequence. At this early stage in her life; the cards are unfamiliar, their true meanings and finer subtleties as unyielding and opaque as the viewport before her. Yet the cards themselves seem to hum; moving with a barely perceptible tremble. They are warm to the touch.

Isolde frowns and tries to swap the cards intentionally; to break the order with brutish direct input. The moment she does so the entire decks spits into the air, flitting about and sending the children scattering for cover, cackling as the cards rain down.

They recover, reset. The investigation must continue unabated. This is a science vessel, after all.

The sixth time; nothing. Deflated, they heave a collective sigh. The magic is gone once again.

They vow to return tomorrow, to once again tempt fate with a power that is unknown and perhaps unknowable.

Fate finds them first.

* * *

It is deep in the night shift when the killing starts.

It has already begun by the time her eyes snap awake. Her cabin is awash in sinister red warning lights. Toys scattered about her room leer at her; smiling blank expressions rendered feral in the disorientating strobe.

Isolde springs from her bed, and cries out for her parents in the dark. Warning klaxons are the only response.

Instinctively she grabs the tarot deck from her dresser, clutching it close as she pads into the shared living room that adjoins her parents' bedroom. The deck pulses warm in her hands. She calls out again.

Their door is ajar, the bed pristine and so terribly empty. She knows she should lock the door, to stay put and wait as her parents would tell her to. Her finger hovers over the activation stud that will seal her in here alone with that empty bed

The klaxons will not stop screaming.

Tarot deck clutched close to her chest, Isolde steps out into smoke and fire.

* * *

Isolde does not remember where she is when the first Void Storm breaches the hull of the Zariman Ten Zero .

Void-Jump Accident. The very concept is unthinkable. It is a research vessel staffed with thousands of the most qualified and brilliant scientific minds of the Orokin Empire. There are entire generations aboard; countless children. The Seven show the requisite caution, understanding the loss to the Empire should even the slightest mishap occur.

The design is peerless; as robust and timeless as anything made in the Empire's endless reign.

It fails; fails utterly. The Void Shields are compromised, and pulsing waves of eldritch power rip through the corridors; enveloping every soul aboard. It is unknown whether this is a natural malfunction, or deliberate sabotage.

The question is academic. The Zariman Ten Zero becomes a murderous funhouse; a killing field. The true horror of it is lost to time.

Fire suppression systems ship wide fail. Sentry turrets at key intersections blaze to life, slicing into panicking survivors and felling them in droves; all IFF restrictions wiped. Boarding defences spring to life; cutting beams severing bone and cooking flesh as they scythe through those unfortunate enough to be caught in their path.

Isolde remembers none of this. One moment she is treading carefully down a darkened corridor; listening to the ship-wide broadcast ordering all hands to emergency stations. The next she is on the floor, retching.

Cards scatter across the deck. She has fallen. The air tastes singed; her hair too. That Void stink. Her scalp is bleeding. Flecks of blood stain her night dress; spattering against the upturned face cards. The grinning skull beams up at her, pristine and mocking.

They are the same cards as before, that same damned sequence. Smoke fills the corridors, along with screams and shrill, insane laughter. Still the klaxons shriek.

Smudged hands shaking, Isolde sweeps the cards back into her hands and rises to her feet, limping numbly forward.

The first adult she encounters is a male crewmen, middle aged. One of the security detail, name of Agnas. A friendly man, he is known to her, but not like this. Agnas' helmet is missing. His tunic is frayed and torn, maroon with caked blood. The reason becomes apparent.

Agnas is bashing his skull into the bulkhead repeatedly; slow deliberate strikes. He makes no sound. Just that maddening, methodical squelching thud as torn, bruised flesh meets unyielding ship plating. The plating wins, and the man topples with a wet thud; forehead caved inward.

Isolde screams, louder than any siren.

* * *

Sohren finds her, a traumatised ball in the corner; eyes swollen shut from streaming tears. Isolde's lungs now manage little more than a tortured, prolonged croak.

He steals a panicked glance over his shoulder. He knows more Grownups are coming. Some are organising, lashing out in an animalistic rage. The Void has them. They tear each other apart, or stalk in groups; hurling themselves upon anyone and everyone they deem to be Other. The children are not spared.

Their children have a rule. In times of crisis, or injury or self-doubt, the lonely observation deck is their sanctuary. Sohren carefully guides Isolde through the dark. They arrive terrified, but unharmed.

Sara has appeared, all but dragging a groggy Kael. A venting conduit had all but cooked the corridor he and his parents had been standing in when the first Void Storm hit.

Sara is ordinarily a chirpy person; bright eyed and optimistic. That is gone now. With grim determination she had pulled Kael from beneath the cooked bodies; administering what little aid she knew. Kael rasps into a rebreather; eyes streaming.

They gather at the only place they know. Doric is already waiting for them. Marbles clack as they grind together in his balled fists. He too is bloodied.

He is staring out the viewport in awestruck horror. It is opaque no longer.

The veil has been lifted. The Lidless Eye of the Void stares back; baleful, livid and ever-changing.

The children sink to the floor together, clinging to each other and weeping.

* * *

One of the hunting parties finds them eventually. There are five of them, three men and two women. Their eyes are black with murderous intent. Some carry rifles, but wield them like clubs. Others brandish little more than bloodied fingernails, caked with gore.

The children have no weapons. They are hemmed in on both sides. Their backs kiss the cool glass behind them.

"Stay back!" Sara warns with thinly disguised panic.

Sohren puts himself between the encroaching killers and Isolde, shielding her. She is all but catatonic.

Doric attempts to break the deadlock. He charges forward; balled fists swinging. A rifle butt rewards him, cracking across his forehead with a meaty slap. Marbles bounce and skitter across the corridor as he tumbles to the deck, stunned.

Sara sprints forward instinctively, snarling. One of the women overpowers her easily, clamping gnarled hands over her throat. Kael throws himself onto the crazed woman's back; respirator working overtime. He pulls hair, claws at eyes; anything to save his diminutive friend.

To no avail. The adult feels no pain, and instead starts cackling as she tightens her grip on Sara's throat.

Sohren steps in to help. He is hopelessly outnumbered. Defiant to the end, he raises his fists in a striking stance. His father is a lowly guardsman, and he is scarcely more than a boy. He roars a challenge.

Something pushes past him.

It is Isolde. She is no longer crying. Her eyes blaze with fury. Sohren does not recognise the look in her eyes. It is a cold rage, pitiless and vengeful as she stares at the fiend choking Sara.

Isolde raises a hand and emits a primal scream. A shockwave rips through the corridor. Crewmen are scattered about like bowling pins; Kael along with them. The death grip on Sara is loosened.

In a flash Sara disappears; appearing in a terrified heap six metres away and scrambling backward on her elbows. Her face is a mask of confusion.

The adults charge. Another shockwave blasts them off their feet. Sohren has lunged at them, only he has covered too much ground, impossibly quick. He catches himself, looking down at his hands, bewildered.

The adults scramble to their feet. One of the men roars a challenge and arcs a rifle toward Isolde. A scalding bolt of light vaporises him on the spot; blasting ash back up the corridor. Flakes flicker in the air, like morbid butterflies.

The rest of the adults flee, hooting like stampeding animals.

Kael's eyes blaze a deep blue above the ridges of the respirator. Energy crackles across his fingertips.

He holds his hand up, turning it over in awe; studying it. A hush falls over them. This is a scene playing out across every deck, on every level. The realms of reality simply twist, bend, then shatter.

It is an Awakening of sorts. Untamed power unleashed, bonded to minds young enough and vivid enough to withstand an unbridled, forbidden power, but unable to control it beyond blind impulse.

Fully harnessed, it will determine the fate of an Empire.

Doric, groaning and clambering to his feet, looks up at the viewport that forms a silhouette behind his friends. He is dazed, winded certainly. His eyes play tricks on him surely.

For the briefest moment, a shadow watches them. It cocks its head in wry amusement, and as suddenly as it appears is gone.


	13. Chapter 13

" _Do you have a visual?"_

" _Moving through the markets now. Damn, it smells. How do people live like this?"_

" _This is how the world is now. How it has always been, in a sense. Stay focused."_

" _I_ am _focused. You think it's easy getting around this place without getting rumbled?"_

" _Just keep an eye on him. We can't risk a scene."_

" _Please, you worry too much."_

" _And you don't worry_ at all _."_

\- Unidentified Venusian communication

* * *

Now.

The boy watched the walls swarm up around them. He pulled the flapping coat tighter, scolding his lack of nerve.

Prospect 141's Low Tier Markets were sensory overload. Alien smells and sights threatened to overwhelm him at every turn. Low awnings of all manner of shapes, materials and colours jutted out from the buildings around him, strung with bunting and cheap metallic lights that blinked simplistic patterns or depicted the neon names of various outlets. Coarse shouting and throaty yells exchanged between bawdy drunks and soliciting merchants. No single wall surface was clear: holo-projectors blinked from one image to the next, shilling survival gear, improvised fire-arms, drug rehabilitation and promises of the better future with Anyo Corp (experiences may vary).

Steel grates hissed wafting clouds of steam that temporarily obscured all the madness from view. The boy drank it in, dumbfounded.

The most striking aspect was the poverty. Children ran by cackling, their cheap environment suits stitched together from all manner of recycled materials; shoes bound together with little more than rope and emergency tape. The elderly shuffled by, gaits twisted by ailments long untreated. Still, they managed, suffering their privation with a measure of stubborn dignity. The markets teemed with activity; bartering and low credit swaps; heated haggling and laughter. The boy noted the waiting lines for the soup kitchens were the longest. These were a lean people, long used to hardship.

Was this how the world was now? The boy had no idea what year it was, or how long he had slept. Before his time beneath the ice, the world he knew was golden and splendid. Cruel and merciless yes, but precisely so. Here, this low in the bowels of a Corpus surface city, the technology was scrappily functional and improvised. Were it not for the Anyo Corp murals on the walls and constant assault of holo-advertising, the boy would have sworn it was Grineer built. The Trade Guilds had built an Empire upon the ashes of the Old World, and these people were its lowest rung.

The boy drew stares. Details mattered. The sleeper suit he wore beneath the shaggy environment coat was much too clean, for one. The frontiersmen around him had rugged skin, tanned from snow glare and pock-marked with burns from hazardous pipework. The boy by contrast was pale and unblemished and for a teenager carried himself with a demeanour that bordered on haughty, whether he was aware of it or not.

His rebreather in particular drew a lot of unwanted attention. It was much too ornate. With a hissing click he removed it, stuffing it into one of his pockets. He regretted it instantly. Without the mask the air was all the more rank; stale, reprocessed, mixed with heady aroma of imported spices and homegrown protein mix. The boy gagged and almost retched, nostrils twitching.

His attempts at blending in proved unsuccessful. The citizens around him could spot him a mile away, swamped as he was in the flapping thermal coat. Invisible shoulders clipped him and threatened to send him spinning off his feet as the battered trio wound their way through the bustling markets; people only parting when they saw Kelpo's sorry state. Gruff or not, they took care of their own here.

The third time somebody knocked into the boy he reacted poorly. The oaf in question was left upended on a collapsed market stall, clutching a sprained wrist. Quite how this occurred was too fast to adequately process. Telin swore vehemently and dragged the boy down a side street before they attracted further unwanted attention. The boy complained indignantly but allowed himself to be hauled away.

Telin's route was memorised, but wound and double backed on itself time and time again; ducking beneath hissing pipes and stepping over gurgling coolant drains. Even the boy, for all his wits, was barely able to keep up.

They eventually came to a foreboding metal door secreted down a dingy alleyway. Any signage was unlit. Bullet holes dented the walls like punctuation.

The Mangled Moa was not a salubrious establishment. Indeed, it was barely an establishment at all.

It was only when Telin banged a gloved fist on the door that a woman's muffled voice called out.

"We're closed!"

Telin banged again. A view grille set into the door slid open. A bitter laugh split the air.

"Oh no. No-no-no-no." She fumed. "Not _you_."

The viewport slammed shut.

Telin sighed and banged his fist again. The viewport remained closed.

"Go away!" the woman's muffled voice snapped.

"It's Kelp, Neera." Telin there was no masking the hoarseness in his voice. "He's hurt."

A pause. The viewport snicked open. Even in the gloom, the boy could make out the woman's eyes, studying the weary scavengers. The concern in them when they saw Kelpo, ashen faced and battered. A heaving sigh filled the air.

There came a series of popping sounds; of heavy bolts being lifted; an energy emitted powering down; then padlocked chains being popped and sliding to the floor.

The door banged open with a metallic squeal. Neera was Telin's age; with red hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun. Pretty; hard as nails. The scowl she fixed Telin with softened when she saw Kelpo's condition.

"Inside, quickly." She ordered, before stabbing a finger at Telin. "Don't think for a second this means we're cool."

The glare found itself fixed on the boy next. For all his martial ability, the boy felt three inches tall.

"Who's this?" Neera asked suddenly, only noticing him now. There was no hiding her shock at the boy's strange appearance.

"He's with us." Telin replied.

Neera eyed the boy warily.

"Huh. Looks weird."

"He _is_ weird." Telin confirmed as he lugged Kelpo through the doorway. The boy froze in place, utterly unsure of himself under her withering stare.

"Well what are you gawking at?" the woman barked. She kept to the point.

"I'm Neera. Bar's mine. Inside now."

The boy shuffled through, thoroughly told.

Neera took a final suspicious look out into the alleyway behind, then clanged the door shut behind them. A chorus of rattling chains, bolts and clicking locks followed. With a pop and fizzle a sorry little shield generator cranked to life, covering the doorway in a _Sorry We're Closed_ hologram.

In the shadows, a gleaming pair of yellow eyes winked into life, then vanished once more.

* * *

The men assembled on the landing pad below were united only by their dishevelled appearance. They were local guns; cheap muscle and lone brokers for the most part. Long coats and clunky respirators; or bare-chested tat-fiends big on piercings and low on subtlety. Some even wore the box helmets of the Corpus Navy, albeit customised and stencilled far beyond immediate recognition. Only the hulking Grineer mercenary's presence kept them in line. They eyed the massive clone with fascination.

Brakarr for his part showed no expression; ruined face hidden beneath his battle mask. He dwarfed them all.

Above them all, the _Severance Package_ sat docked in its berth in the Mid-Tier Hangar. Kahrl Brahvic stood atop the ship, overseeing his crew; who were scrambling to and fro; attaching fuel hoses and supervising drones scrubbing the plating down.

"Remind me again why we're hiring these Low Stack trash?" Brahvic began. "Isn't that what I'm paying you for?"

Terrenus Vern stood by his employer's side, arms folded across his chest.

"Consider it a necessary expense. My team is for frontier work." He gave a slight shrug. "Terrain has changed. City like this? We need numbers. Close routes, box the target."

"It's expensive."

"Also dangerous." Another shrug, this one more expansive. "Unless you'd prefer to use your own crew?"

"No." Brahvic shook his head as he scratched at his jowls, "I need 'em here. Do it your way."

"Understood." Vern flashed a thumbs up to Isolde and Parson-Luk, who waited below with the mercs. Isolde nodded coldly and turned to the drone representative from Disposable Solutions, finalising the deal.

"Should we notify Anyo Corp?" Vern asked, thumbs hooked on his holsters.

Kahrl Bravic sniffed and spat on the deck.

"Only when we've something to tell 'em." Brahvic grunted. "No more mistakes, Vern: we lose this asset and the whole Corpus Fleet's gonna be breathing down our necks real fast."

Vern nodded coldly, ever the professional.

"Consider it done."


	14. Chapter 14

" _It's war out there. People ask me how I trade in the current climate. Trade embargos, fleet blockades; wholesale Technocyte outbreaks. I tell them it's easy._

 _We're Corpus. Everyone has their price."_

\- Darvo Bek, on post-Collapse Society

* * *

"I'm afraid it is not in the interest of our business to disclose the movements of our passengers." Hemry Torvith said grandly, thumbs hooked in the suspenders that kept his suit trousers aloft. "We value the privacy of our patrons highly."

Torvith was precisely the kind of Corpus parasite Vern loathed. That they now shared the small dingy office in a Low Stack docking bay irritated him all the more.

The place was a mess. Blinking, barely functional monitors and copious amounts of discarded data slates vied for competition with the over spilling ashtrays and fast food cartons strewn about the desk. Torvith was chewing on a congealed mess of noodles and featureless meat, masticating loudly.

"You know the rules, Hunter Vern." Torvith chewed jovially, moustache wiggling as his lips smacked together. "'Self-Interest is the Truest Path to Enlightenment', as the good Prophet says."

Torvith himself was an arrogant man of limited height and questionable girth. His facial tattoos mouthed loyalty to Anyo Corp, but on closer inspection revealed several key inaccuracies both in script and structure. What should have read Son of the Prophet in one script instead read something else entirely; the translation of which was perhaps best left unknown. Vern thought better than to point this out. Still, even his considerable patience was at an end.

Scanning data from the _Severance_ had led them here. Time was credits. The trail was growing cold. There were any number of escape vectors a target could take in a city as layered and labyrinthine as Prospect 141. Parson-Luk and Isolde waited outside, together with an assortment of heavies.

Their presence was not required. Terrenus Vern reached up and removed his mirrored goggles.

Torvith dropped his spoon with an audible clank.

Vern's eyes were cybernetic replacements. The skin across his eyes was leathery with scar tissue.

His cold mechanical eyes betrayed no emotion.

"I was hoping simple common sense would tell you that our interests were aligned, Mr. Torvith; that the speedy departure of both my associates and I would be logically in your self-interest; allowing you to continue running this fine facility without fear of further disruption. It appears that is not so."

Vern leaned forward in his chair, unmoved by the aromatic stink of steamed gene-fish.

"Look, it's very simple. I am a successful hunter, operating under full licence from Anyo Corp on no less than three planets. I could pay any number of slicers to hijack your records; raze your firewalls and freely distribute the data to all and sundry interested in learning just who comes through this sorry port, and how often. But that would be unnecessary, wouldn't you agree?"

Hemry Torvith gave a slack nod, growing pale. Vern's lips formed the thinnest, fleeting smile.

"Good. And would you further agree that it is in the best interest of Docking Bay Two-Twelve that accredited, licensed brokers working in the best interest of Anyo Corp be assisted wherever possible; up to and including providing access to your cam footage?"

Another nod.

"Splendid. And you will provide this information freely and without further delay?"

One final nod.

"Excellent." Vern slid his goggles back into place and rose to his feet. The numerous pistols, knives and grenades affixed to his webbing clicked and jangled as he moved for the door.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Torvith. May Profits Guide You Well."

Hemry Torvith sat frozen where he was; appetite quite forgotten.

* * *

The search teams fanned out throughout the Market Sector, pushing locals aside brusquely and tossing stalls where people resisted. Crowds thinned considerably as the roving gangs wound their way through the streets, sowing chaos.

Isolde watched them with considerable distaste.

"How goes the search?" Vern's voice crackled over the com.

"Messy." Isolde replied, holding her wrist com to her mouth. "Where did you _find_ these oafs?"

"Margins are tight. We needed numbers. They were within budget."

"Bravic got what he paid for."

"Be that as it may, we work with the tools provided." Vern was nonplussed. "Get back here, there's something I want you take a look at."

"Who will coordinate the local teams?"

"They know the terrain, they'll manage. I need your expertise here. Brahvic's recovery team are finished salvaging whatever the hell was left on that ship."

" _Liset_." Isolde corrected, automatically. "On my way."

She clicked off the com and walked over to Parson-Luk.

The Ostron Hunter was crouched near an alleyway. What he saw Isolde could not make out for the life of her. He turned to look up at her, earrings jangling as he beamed toothily.

"A trail, Surah. Come, come." He beckoned to her eagerly. "Come see."

"I can't, not now. Terrenus needs me. Can you manage?"

The hunter nodded solemnly. Besides Vern, the skittish hunter was her closest companion these days.

"You." She snapped her fingers at the nearest passing clutch of mercs. "With him. Now."

The sloping crew of thugs knew better than to mess with the reputed Void Witch. Vern called the shots, but the hooded witch enforced them. They peeled off and followed the itinerant hunter down the alley. Isolde scanned the market, hairs prickling at the back of her neck.

Isolde frowned. She could sense something. An old familiar feeling.

Unconsciously, Isolde's hand drifted to the knife secreted within her belt.

Turning on her heel, she swiftly made for the Docking Bay, never once losing the feeling she was being watched.

* * *

"You sure?" Fellik asked doubtfully.

He was a slab of a man. Hired muscle, one of the One Forty-Ones; a major local crew. Like him, his boys had uniform shaved heads and matching sigils branded over their left eyes depicting the city's numeric designation in jagged Corpus script.

Parson-Luk nodded enthusiastically, pointing toward the faltering holographic sign of the Mangled Moa.

"Yes, yes. So close. Close, close _utz_."

Fellik chuckled. Even by Low Stack standards the place was pretty miserable. Crude bullet holes and old plasma scoring marked the walls; memories from some ancient fight. It was exactly his kind of place. Bullet holes or not, Fellik didn't care. The One Forty-Ones were stone killers. Nothing scared them.

Fellik checked his piece. A chunky revolver; locally produced. He flicked the cylinder open with a snap of his wrist, grunted in approval; before slapping it shut again and tucking it in the back of his pants.

"C'mon."

They started forward, making for the Mangled Moa's sorry looking entrance.

As they approached, Fellik paused to check on the trapper. He frowned.

Parson-Luk was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Kelpo Marr lay stretched out on the table, stripped of his environment suit. The boy watched the older man's chest rise and fall, listened to rhythmic mechanical tick-sigh of the respirator unit Neera had stashed in the backroom of the Mangled Moa.

Kelpo was corded with lean muscle that spoke of tough living and limited food. The boy quietly noted that both Neera and Telin were no different in this regard. Telin served as a decidedly inexperienced nurse to Neera's meticulous doctor. Evidently, this was not the first time she had patched somebody up, nor the first time Telin had helped her.

The boy admired her craftsmanship as she worked, addressing Kelpo's wounds with practiced efficiency.

"Are you a Lorist?" the boy asked, perplexed.

"A what now?" Neera frowned as she worked. "Scalpel please, Tel."

"A healer."

"Kid I'm a _bar tender_." Neera never took her eyes off the patient. "Running a place in this city? You get real good at patching people up, real fast."

The boy nodded. There was nothing but the snip of scissors and the gurgle of the life support machine. Bored, the boy stood up and wandered out into the main bar, leaving them alone.

The bar was every bit as grimy inside as without. The main bar was a collection of battered tables and recycled furniture; cobbled together in ramshackle fashion around the bar. All manner of bottles, decanters, flasks and jars cluttered the rear wall of the bar. Most of it was home brewed. The boy picked up a flask, unscrewed the lid and took a sniff. Spluttering, he set it back, blinking back tears.

"That's called Paint Thinner." Telin confirmed from the doorway. He was drying his hands with a dish rag.

"How apt." The boy winced, wiping at his face.

"Kelp's favourite." Telin threw the dishrag on the counter, perching on a stool next to he bar.

"Is he alright?" The boy asked.

"He'll live. Don't tell her I said it, kid; but Neera's damned good at what she does. Besides, we've been through worse."

The boy raised an eyebrow. Telin's face darkened, as he poured himself a shot. He knocked it back, grimacing.

"Well actually no. That's not true. Not even close. We should be dead." He sniffed, setting the glass down carefully. "We'd be dead, but for you. So, uh… thanks."

Telin raised an awkward toast and did a second shot. His hands were shaking.

The boy simply nodded. A leaden silence fell between them. After a moment Telin twisted about in his stool, eyes narrowed.

"So you really don't remember anything?"

The boy shook his head.

"Just flashes. Here and there. Small details that make little sense in isolation." The boy nodded to the armoured entrance door, indicating the city beyond.

"Is this how the System is now?"

"The _System_? Hell I don't know about you, but I've never been off world kid. Barely even left this city. Certainly never owned my own spaceship."

" _Liset_." The boy corrected firmly.

"Yeah, whatever." Telin grunted. "Look, kid: things work a certain way here. Guilds own the city, whether we admit to it or not. They call the shots, we scramble to provide anything we can. Labour mostly; off-world volunteers, infantry for the Navy. Few come back. Every few years we get pissed, things kick off; then Corp sends in suppression teams to kick our teeth in, remind us of our station. Everyone loses."

"An injustice."

"A _reality_ , kid. Want my advice? Better to keep your head down, not rock the boat. You'll live longer."

"Is that why you're a scavenger?" the boy asked.

The question was an earnest one. Telin still didn't like it.

"I'm a s _urvivor_ , kid. Neera's folks, they had ideals. This place used to be a rallying point for people; a second home of sorts."

The boy took in the patchwork lighting. The faint sound of a drip in the far corner.

"And what happened?"

"The Corpus happened." Neera said as she entered, peeling off a set of medical gloves. "My mother was good with numbers. She got indentured service; life term brokerage contract, full memory wipe. Pops was summarily executed."

Telin offered her the bottle. Neera took a swig.

"Price of idealism kid." Neera sighed and set the bottle back on the counter. She caught Telin's eye and nodded towards the doorway. "Telin can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Sure."

They left the boy alone by the bar.

* * *

Kelpo was stable. Pale, sweating profusely, but stable. They spoke quietly to one another.

"He's pulling through, but barely. Just what kind of hell mess did you stir up this time, Tel?"

Telin nodded back towards the kid.

"Found a ship buried beneath the ice. Tier Zero find. Kid was inside."

"Tier Zero?" Neera hissed. "And you _woke him up_?!"

"Didn't have a choice, Nee!" Telin countered hotly. "Our broker stitched us up. They pulled a gun on us. Things escalated."

"He's not salvage anymore. You know the rules, Tel. At best it's a rescue fee. And based on what I'm seeing it sure doesn't look one Anyo Corp has any interest in paying. You got a plan?"

"I'm working on it."

"Work faster. That kid's trouble. You know it, I know it. Nobody from this town claims a Tier Zero and walks away clean."

"I've noticed."

"And?"

"And I'm _working on it_. We need to go up the food chain with this. The goons after us are a local crew. Well-funded, sure, but they're subbies, just like me."

"Telin. You're one scavenger. They're a _crew_. _Listen_ to yourself." Neera pointed towards where the boy sat in the parlour. "Dreams of a pay day aren't worth a bullet in the brain."

"So what are you saying? Just hand him over."

"I'm saying that you need to be _realistic_ here." Neera said. "This place works a certain way. They profit, we stay out of their way; get to live another day. That's the trade-off."

"That's bullshit."

They trailed off. Neera heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her hair.

"Look." She said, "I can arrange a neutral broker. An exchange. Profit's all they understand. This can be managed."

"Nuh-uh. No way." Telin shot back. "Not after what they did to Kelp."

"You idiot! You'll get yourself killed." Neera fumed. "You're as stubborn as ever."

"You _like_ stubborn." Telin flashed a dangerous smile.

"Shut up." Neera scowled, smiling slightly in spite of herself.

"Excuse me."

The boy cleared his throat politely. They both jumped. He had seemingly appeared in the doorway out of nowhere.

The boy's wide eyes glowed as he looked up at them.

"There appears to be someone at the door."


	15. Chapter 15

" _I'm going in."_

" _In your head that sounded clever. No you're not. Under no circumstances are you '_ going in' _."_

" _Yes I am. I'm_ absolutely _going in. Watch me."_

"Observe and report _. Our instructions were quite clear."_

" _I'm_ observing _mission parameters changing. Now I'm_ reporting _to you my intentions. Which are to go in. Besides, even if you wanted to stop me,_ you're in space _._ I'm _going in."_

" _I'm going to kill you, Sara."_

" _No,_ they're _going to_ try _and kill me, but that's on them. You just get ready with that extract."_

\- Unknown transmission, intercepted above Venus

* * *

"What do we do?!" Telin stared at the door, whispering.

The door pounded again. They stood frozen before it, powerless.

"I thought you were working on a plan!" Neera whispered back.

"I am! This wasn't part of it!"

"Quiet, both of you." The boy shushed. He had the dishrag in his hand as he started toward the door. "Help me now."

There was blood on the floor from where they had first dragged Kelpo through. Telin hadn't even noticed.

They worked quickly, mopping at the blood; padding to and fro; hastily cleaning up the mess. The last minute clean-up was conducted in anxious silence. The floor was still wet when they finished.

The banging at the door became more insistent.

* * *

Fellik pounded a meaty fist against the front door. The holographic Closed sign fizzled and sparked from the impact.

He waited. Pounded again. The 141's around him exchanged looks. Brewer and Telch produced compact shotguns from their coats, psyching themselves up. Stevvin, the largest of them, stepped forward with a battering ram. He looked at Fellik intently, awaiting the final order.

The viewport snicked open.

"Sorry folks." Neera smiled apologetically, voice breezy and cheerful. "Was out back. How can I help?"

"Looking for someone. Hoping you can help."

"Me? Nobody here. Bad shootout six months back. Been closed ever since."

"Not anymore." Fellik snorted. "Look, lady: you've got about thirty seconds before we take this door off its hinges. Open up."

There was a moment's hesitation.

With a petering pop the holoshield fizzled out. There came a rattling of bolts, a slithering of chain and the final heavy scrape of a barricade being removed.

Neera opened the door with a wink, ushering them in.

"One drink." She smiled conspiratorially. "Don't tell the Corp."

Fellik strode into the Mangled Moa, his steel capped boots heavy and predatory. He cast an eye about the place; taking in the wet linoleum floor, the steel bar; the dingy décor. His men filed in behind, making a poor show of disguising their significant armament. The bar became very small all of a sudden.

In the back room, Telin and the boy crouched and waited; ears pressed to the door as they strained to listen. Kelpo breathed softly, sound asleep.

"'preciate the hospitality." Fellik grunted. He was still slowly absorbing the room around him, taking everything in. "Name's Fellik."

"Neera. So what can I get you boys?"

"Paint Thinner. Straight."

"And for the gentlemen?"

They rumbled a collective response.

"Six Paint Thinners, coming up." Neera stepped around behind the bar. "Have a seat."

They sprawled themselves out across the room; some obnoxiously resting their boots up on adjoining stools or propped on tables. It made for a welcome relief from tossing market stalls or shaking down traders.

Beneath the counter was an elegant double barrel shotgun. It had been her father's; an antique donated by a passing trader who fell in love with the Moa. It was loaded, Neera knew that much. Whether it still worked or not was another question entirely.

Not her first strategy.

She set out six shot glasses. Her cleanest.

"Rare to see the One Forty Ones this neck of the woods." Neera was amiable as she poured out each measure in turn. "Thought you boys preferred the western sectors."

"We do. Job has us out here." Fellik took a stool right at the bar. He leered at Neera, never breaking eye contact. Neera met his stare openly as she picked up one of the glasses on the bar, polishing it meticulously. Not her first creepy customer either.

"Tell me about the job." She said.

"Looking for two men. Had a kid with them. Friend of ours places 'em here, not too long ago."

"These people got a name?"

Fellik snapped his fingers and beckoned one of his men forward. Telch slid a data slate across the bar with a gentle scrape. It showed Kelpo and Telin grinning by a small rental speeder. Their first job. Neera knew the picture well; had taken it herself.

A copy of it was on the wall in the back room.

"Oh, him." Neera chuckled to herself. "That's Telin Voss."

"Know him?"

"Yeah. Real piece of work that one." Neera shook her head venomously. "Total scumbag. Talks a big game about getting out of this town but mostly spends his life freezing his skin off in the Frozen Zones."

Telin bristled but the boy shot him a stern look.

"Know where we might find him?" Fellik was asking.

"These days?" Neera shrugged expansively, setting the glass down. "Couldn't tell ya. We're not exactly on speaking terms."

"That so?" Fellik slugged his drink and tapped his glass against the counter top. He slid it over to her.

Neera eyed the glass sceptically.

"All you get is one. I'm not licensed to trade anymore."

"You're not selling me anything, girlie. I'm not paying for it either." Fellik rapped his glass against the counter, insistent now. "Another."

This time it was Telin's turn to glare at the boy. The boy had his rebreather back in place, and a dangerous look in his eye that typically preceded an unwelcome but sudden degree of ultra-violence.

Outside, Neera poured another round. Fellik grunted some semblance of a thank you.

"I'm sure you won't mind if we hang around here. Maybe even take a look around."

"This is my bar. My _home_. You can stay all you want, even drink for free so it please you. But you don't get to poke around. Not here. There are rules."

A slow, lazy smile spread across Fellik's face.

"That so?" Fellik sneered. "Brewer, go take a look 'round back."

Neera's veneer was beginning to crack. She went pale even though her voice remained even.

"Not sure what you're looking to find. There's nothing there."

Tellik never lost leering glare in his eye. His smile faded entirely.

"We'll be the judge of that."

Brewer was halfway across the room now. Neera took a step back. Her grip tightened on the glass on her hand. Fellik, no stranger to bar fights, saw it immediately.

"Easy now." He warned softly. "Wouldn't want to cause a scene, ruin this little establishment. Would we now?"

"Another word." The boy said quietly. "And I'll make you eat that glass."

The whole room twisted and turned.

The boy stood in the open doorway, hands by his sides; still swathed in the oversized environmental coat. Clutched in one hand was the crude scissors Neera had used to cut Kelpo's bandages. Beyond, Telin stood between them and Kelpo, holding a scalpel up and looking decidedly stricken.

Fellik twisted in his stool, barked a laugh and clapped his meaty hands together.

"And there it is!" Fellik grinned and pushed himself to his feet. The rest of his men went to follow. He waved them down. He held the shot glass up.

"This glass?" Fellik asked. "This glass right here?"

The boy's eyes narrowed over the respirator.

"You heard me."

"That's a nice threat. Gotta borrow it sometime."

"It is not a threat." The boy shook his head emphatically, voice solemn. "A threat would imply a lack of intent, or an inability to enact my stated goal. You are here without invitation. You have abused her hospitality, threatened her establishment. That is undeserving. That is an _injustice_."

There was a venomous weight to that last word. The boy reached up and unclasped the environmental coat. It fluttered to the floor. His eyes never left Fellik's.

There was something predatory in the boy's stare; cold and calculating, almost lupine in aspect. For the first time in his life Fellik felt a sliver of uncertainty lance through him. He could feel his men staring at him. A lifetime of brawling; of accepting challenges and savagely winning took over. He snarled and brought his fist down toward the boy, glass in hand.

By rights that should have been the end of it. The smash of a glass, a boy unconscious; face down in a pool of blood.

Not so. What actually happened, happened quickly. So quickly in fact that Neera would later have to replay the internal cam footage to quite follow the sequence of events. Even then, reality seemed to break, just a bit.

The boy dashed forward, impossible quick. The scissors flashed. Fellik screeched; hamstrings severed. The shot glass tumbled from his hands. It never hit the floor. Neera blinked and it was gone. Then the boy was on Fellik, legs tangled about his neck, squeezing it in a vicelike grip. Fellik's mouth opened wide choking for air. The boy stuffed something in his mouth, choking him. He twisted his legs tighter.

Fellik's weight gave out as he spun towards the countertop. Face first he struck it, hard. There was a sickening crack and the splintering of glass as he descended. The boy landed in a nimble crouch, unscathed.

He rose to his feet, fixing the rest of the gang with a baleful stare. Fellik lay face down, leg spasming fitfully; blood pouring from his ruined mouth; neck twisted at an impossible angle. The handle or a revolver peaked up from Fellik's belt, within snatching distance.

Nobody moved. Neera could hear the tick and whirr of the respirator from the back room.

"Final warning." The boy announced steadily. "No threats, only promises."

The gang exploded from their seats, scattering furniture in all directions. The revolver was in the boys hand now. He fanned the hammer. Blood spattered the walls as wood splintered and bodies tumbled; crashing through tables. The cylinder spun empty. The boy hurled the gun at the largest encroaching thug like a throwing knife, aimed with lethal precision. The man's nose burst and he went down with a muffled roar, clutching his face.

Two thugs remained. Brewer and Telch had finally drawn. Snarling primitive slug throwers; shotguns both. There was a heavy metal chunk as slides pumped; barrels levelled squarely at the boy. Neera's eyes widened in panic. Levelled squarely at _her_. She threw herself flat behind the counter.

A seemingly endless deluge of buckshot filled the air. The boy crashed in over the counter top, rolling into a tight ball. Shards of glass showered down, splashing them in all manner of liquor.

Her entire collection went up. A lifetime's supply. Bottle after bottle burst. The Moa '57, an Eidolon Sunrise; even a bootlegged Orokin Dew. Reduced to a tidal wave of booze and glass.

Yelling in rage as much as fear, the thugs emptied every single cartridge they had.

The boy clamped a hand on Neera's shoulder, staring at her. Holding her in place behind the comparative safety of the bar. They each had a hand on the antique piece stored beneath the counter top. He was utterly calm.

Neera was enraged. The boy was waiting.

The barrage abruptly ceased. The thugs' shotguns clacked empty; clicking over and over.

To the boy's shock Neera snarled and shoved him aside. The shotgun was in her hands now.

Two barrels, no lack of intent.

Neera snapped up over the bar. The first barrel sounded like a thunderclap in the confined space. The good news was that the shotgun definitely still worked. The bad news was that the kick of the damned thing nearly dislocated her shoulder. Brewer hit the far wall like a rag doll. Telch sprinted for the exit.

Neera's father trained her well. She swung the shotgun to bear; caressed the secondary trigger. The second barrel took Telch in the small of his back, lifting the thug off his feet and smashing him against the door jamb. He gurgled as he spasmed on the floor, spine severed.

"Good aim." The boy remarked, nodding in approval as he calmly rose to his feet.

Neera's hands were shaking as she lowered the gun.

"You think?"

"Better than his."

Telin stood shaking the back room, the scalpel still in his hand.

"You alright?" he asked her.

"Y-yeah." She nodded. "I think so."

"We need to get out of here." Telin said. "More will be coming. Got a trolley?"

Neera nodded numbly, looking faintly sick.

The bar was a ruin. Bodies, shell casings and splintered furniture carpeted the floor. The bar itself was a sea of broken glass and sopping liquor. Groans filled the air as the wounded clutched their wounds. Gun smoke coiled the air. It was a miracle the place hadn't gone up in flames.

The boy banged a box of spare cartridges on the counter top.

"Load up." The boy told Neera. "You will need these."


	16. Chapter 16

" _Registering weapons fire in Market Sector L-43."_

" _Gang related?"_

" _More than likely."_

" _Noted. Have we any market exposure in the region?"_

" _Uh, No Sir. It's a Low-Tier Sector. Minimal tithes."_

" _Log it for the record. Keep me posted if it escalates beyond acceptable thresholds."_

\- City Watch Communique, Prospect 141

* * *

Aboard the _Severance Package,_ the techs assembled around the silent golem, quietly marvelling. They were scrappers by trade, simple engine-smiths and recovery experts. Humble men of a humble trade, though not lacking in skill. They worked all manner of machines, long forgotten and broken on the blasted Venusian wastes. They were pragmatic, used to the unfamiliar. Grineer scout ships, shot down by automated Corpus pickets; civilian haulers, felled by Void Surges or mysteriously abandoned from eons past. They had seen it all.

Right now none of them had any idea what they were looking at.

It lay on the table, imperiously elegant; rendered in a deep ebony and spotless navy. Sharp antennae jutted out from its head, and swooping pauldrons rose up from its shoulders, accentuating its sleek curvature. White detailing decorated the darkest segments of the armoured carapace. A blue cloak spilled down from its shoulders, edged in white. The golem was entirely lifeless, laid out on the scanning slab like some ancient fallen warrior, awaiting a funeral pyre that never came.

"Well?" Kahrl Bravic asked. He towered over most of the people in the room; especially the young girl.

"You ask me how much it is worth." Isolde replied. "And I repeat myself: it means a great deal to some. A great deal more to others."

"No riddles, child." Bravic warned, his mechanical arm whirring as banged a fist against the guardrail. "Trade! How much can we expect?"

Isolde looked at Vern. Vern, stood a respectful distance away, nodding solemn encouragement. Isolde sighed, pointing out some of the finer points of detail on the ebony chassis.

"Consider the engravings on the outer chassis. The stencil work, just below the antenna. Even the curvature of the helmet itself. It is custom made. Master-crafted, rendered by ancient artificers. A reward, in exchange for great service."

"You're saying it's valuable?" Bravic asked.

"I am saying it is Orokin." Isolde fixed him with a bald stare, each syllable precise. "It is priceless."

"But if we _were_ to charge." Bravic prompted again, gesturing expansively. "Hypothetically."

Isolde stared at him coldly. "Careful, Captain Bravic. Your greed is showing."

Bravic's expansive smile was all gold, studded with platinum. "Indulge me."

Isolde heaved a sigh.

"Speaking… hypothetically. Without an operator, a Warframe is just that; a frame. A tool, without mind or purpose. A puppet without strings. Extremely valuable, certainly, but as a decoration or research subject. Nothing more."

"And with this… operator?" Bravic pressed.

Isolde looked at Vern. Vern nodded in approval.

"If you were to present this prize to Anyo Corp, fully assembled and functional, your prize is an instrument of war not seen since The Great Collapse. You have journeyed the Rail, Captain Bravic. You know the Tenno have been a bane to Nef Anyo, indeed the Board as a whole. Its value will not measure in credits alone."

"Can you pilot it?" Vern asked, quietly. Isolde shook her head adamantly.

"Impossible. The frame's systems are slaved to the will of its original operator. His neural pathways, his connection to the Void. Without him, the link remains closed; the frame… bereft of function. Once imprinted, Transference from another operator becomes impossible."

Bravic nodded. He was a greedy man, but not without wits. He looked at Vern, eyes glinting with malice.

"Bring me this operator, Vern. Alive."

* * *

The trolley was a grandiose term for the cart they bundled Kelpo into. It was a battered hover-crate, unwieldy and huffing on tired grav-skids. Its usual cargo was cheap beer, illegally brewed. Now it carried a hastily piled jumble of blankets, cushions and throws. Lumped on top of this mess was a stocky scavenger by the name of Kelpo Marr who awoke, bewildered, to a scene of abject chaos.

Merchants leapt out of the way as Telin snarled, driving the cart forward with a desperation tinged with equal parts rage and panic. He spotted Kelpo reaching up to remove the breathing mask.

"Leave it on buddy!" Telin shook his head. "We're getting you out of here!"

Rattling about Kelpo in the cart was a box of shotgun cartridges. He blinked and picked the box up, turning it over in his hands; thoroughly disorientated. There were no less than three forms of painkiller coursing through his system. That didn't matter. The pain was gone. He took in the market serenely, blinking and smiling serenely at the unfolding havoc.

Neera navigated at the front of the cart; antique shotgun held close, barrel toward the ground. She knew the terrain best. The traders saw her, knew her troubled history, and hastily made room as they hurried down the street.

The boy kept one hand on the side of the cart, another on the chunky revolver appropriated from inside the Mangled Moa. He had salvaged every weapon that could be conceivably carried, and they rattled noisily as he struggled to keep up with the cart. He flashed Kelpo a thumbs up as soon as they made eye contact. Kelpo beamed.

Neera directed. She knew the direction she wanted to go: a service stairwell long disused at the far end of the market. It had been an escape route for Solaris United dissidents over the years, though the brutal crackdowns had ensured it was long since forgotten. It was their best chance.

It was also almost fully a kilometer away.

* * *

The One Forty Ones lacked many things. They lacked education, impulse control; common sense, more often than not. They made up for each of these myriad shortcomings with brute force, crude firepower and superior numbers. If a city market presented a dozen potential escape routes, the best solution was to simply block every single one with as many bodies as possible.

Their strategy lacked subtlety, true. There was no doubting its effectiveness.

The first bullet caught the cart in the front grav-skid; exploding it and sending Telin and Kelpo hurtling through the air; landing messily in a shower of spilled cushions and tinkering shotgun cartridges. Neera and the boy dove in opposite directions. Bullets sliced through the air, sparking off duct work and sending the crowds scattering in shrieking panic.

The gang's accuracy was lamentable. Hapless traders screamed and went down. Some lay still, others rocked back and forth clutching wounds. Advertising signs burst in showers of sparks and descending glass.

Telin grabbed Kelpo and dragged him behind the upturned cart. Shots stapled across the bodywork of the sorry cart. Neera found herself laying in the remains of what had once been a market stall. It now resembled a shredded tent held up by ever-splintering wooden stilts.

The boy was the first to return fire. There was no elaborate leaps or Void trickery. Just a low crouch and a determined response. The revolver roared; each barking shot dropping its intended target.

Now it was their pursuers turn to dive for cover. Neera watched gangers slide behind crates and overturn steel tables. She spied one brute, fixated on the boy out in the open. She braced the shotgun and squeezed the trigger. By the time the kick settled, her target had flopped backward, mercifully out of sight.

It wasn't enough. Nowhere nearly enough. The boy cast the spent revolver aside, pumping out shell after shell with his shotgun. Rounds snapped closer and closer. He was completely exposed in the open.

"Alive!" a hoarse voice barked. "We need him alive!"

One goon evidently took the advice on board. There was a hollow cough and something round and fast and hard punched the boy in the stomach. The beanbag round folded the boy sharply. He collapsed, blinking back tears and choking through his respirator; winded. The shotgun tumbled from his hands.

"Drop your guns!" one of the gangers roared, voice piqued with adrenaline. "Drop your guns or we drop you!"

The boy rolled onto his back, gasping for air. Neera hesitated, then flung her shotgun out into the open. She stuck her hands out over the remains of the stall, before hesitantly rising into view.

Mercenaries closed in from all directions; weapons raised. They barked an unintelligible cacophony of conflicting orders. Telin rose into view behind the cart; hands raised, expression stricken.

He was the first to notice the sign board. He knew the markets well; did most of his salvage trading here.

A large billboard depicting Nef Anyo drifted through the air. This was not unusual: independent status or not, Prospect 141 was an unspoken vassal of his corporation. Anyo Iconography came with the usual territory.

Less usual was that the billboard was now staring directly at him.

Then it winked.

At the same moment, every rolling ticker screen and LCD screen flushed a riot of neon yellow. Smiley faces rotated on each and every surface. Even Nef Anyo's typical ceremonial hat blinked out of distance, replaced with a cartoonish depiction of a jester's.

GET DOWN, rolled the text on the ticker screen, over and over.

Telin looked at Neera. Neera looked at him.

The smiley faces flushed an angry, impatient red. The ticker screens updated:

NOT KIDDING. MOVE IT OR LOSE IT.

The scavengers threw themselves flat.

With an ear-splitting hiss a ball of pure energy ripped through the market; spears of light keening as they stabbed out from its centre. Tents split, decking singed. Display screens erupted in sheets of sparking fire. Entire stalls collapsed as the energy ball coursed through, sowing destruction in its wake. Mercenaries screeched; clutching cauterised stumps or simply disintegrating in steaming chunks of meat as they fell apart.

Kelpo for his part stared at the ball of twisting light as it sped toward him, transfixed. Telin tackled him to the ground as an energy beam narrowly skimmed overhead, singing his environment suit. The ball surged into the far distance, sowing chaos and panic in its wake.

"Hell was that?!" Neera gaped. What little was left of her cover was a charred ruin. Similarly charred were the bodies of the mercenaries around them; rendered in gruesome vivisection across the smoking clearing.

"Nothing good!" Telin shouted, helping Kelpo to his feet. "Run!"

They fled, leaving behind the ruined market.

On the billboards, the smiley faces flushed a cheerful yellow once more.

* * *

A lone figure stepped out into the street.

A young girl, slight of frame. She picked up a discarded pistol, examining it with practiced curiosity. The ball of light had neatly snipped its barrel in half. She shrugged, nonplussed; discarding it and surveying the destruction as she padded through the ruined market.

The girl was pretty: bright-eyed, button nosed. A pair of battered goggles with scuffed lenses were pushed up on her forehead; lending some semblance of control to the mane of blonde hair that spilled loosely down her shoulders. She picked up another gun: the shotgun the boy had been using. It was still intact.

Her hands expertly dismantled it, scattering its component pieces across the ground. She patted her hands clean. Too crude a weapon for her.

A tide of mercs sprinted into the street, encroaching from all sides. A backup team. _Of course there was a backup team_ , she thought.

The mercs slowed as they entered the ruined clearing, marvelling at the sheer carnage on display. A different gang this time: all respirators and weather-stained greatcoats.

The girl smiled brightly, offering a wave.

"Hello!" the girl beamed. "I'm Sara. You guys looking for somebody?"

The mercs slowed, unsure of themselves. One of them stepped forward. He had a welder's mask serving as a crude helmet. The faceguard had been retracted, revealing a puffy face and heavy stubble.

"Where'd they go?" the man sneered, starting forward.

Sara's expression never lost any of its perkiness as she shook her head.

"Couldn't possibly tell you. Well I _possibly_ could, but then I'm stalling. Telling you would somewhat defeat the purpose."

The merc growled and started forward. An electrified truncheon sparked to life in his hand. She watched his approach with baffled surprise.

"This is your default solution? A _Prova_? _That's_ your go-to here?"

She was still smiling when he went to grab at her.

The rest of the hired guns emitted a collective wincing hiss. The merc hit the floor, arm fundamentally broken in several unnatural places. The Prova still fizzled as she tossed it aside.

They drew in unison. A wall of clattering weaponry bristled from all angles. Shotguns, compact machine pistols and slug-throwers. Even a ramshackle flamethrower.

"A flamer?" Sara grinned. "Better."

They opened fire. The surviving market stalls collapsed; chopped into matchsticks or torched outright.

Sara moved quickly. A neat hand-spring carried her across the clearing. She dove behind a bullet-chipped packing crate. The crate itself melted under the hail of withering bullets. By the time the licking flames cleared, the crate had all but vanished; reduced to mouldering slag.

Sara too was gone.

The mercenaries approached, confused. Weapons hunted for targets.

The girl's disembodied voice rang out across the abandoned market; echoing off billboards and rebounding through the twisting, empty streets. Now it carried a mechanical echo to it.

"You missed."

The mercs spread out, weapons raised; turning in all directions. They looked about, nervously trying to place the source of the voice.

The girl's voice came from the shadows directly above. Hard-edged now.

"My turn."

It descended from the ceiling, yellow eyes blazing.

* * *

The streets had emptied, eager to be out of the way of the marauding gang and the ensuing carnage. Food riots and mass protests were not uncommon, this deep in the city. Tonight something was different. There was a malice in the air that the locals could sense. Something dangerous lurked the streets. Void trickery, black magic. Better to stay away and indoors, wait it out.

All around, they could hear men shouting. Dashing feet and clanking footsteps. Rattling gunfire rent the air. Screams too. The hush-purr of beam weapons. That keening starburst of energy. More screams. Twice they had to double back on themselves, as hired guns sprinted in the general direction of the Mangled Moa. They sounded more panicked and confused than Telin's motley crew.

They were almost clear of the Market Sector. The exit was right ahead.

Neera rounded the corner first, clutching a small boot knife as her sole form of protection. The boy followed. He moved slowly; still winded, but mobile, hands held low at his side.

They crept forward. The alleyway was dimly lit, foul smelling. Steam hissed and twisted in the air as environment containment systems ticked and hummed around them.

Neera looked at the boy. The boy nodded. Clear.

They started forward again, carefully.

A whisper-thin line of cord snagged Neera's ankle, fiendishly subtle. She was still moving forward before she noticed it pull taught.

The boy saw it far too late. He cried out a warning.

The flash was blinding. Smoke bombs blasted them with soot; choking them in oily dust.

Neera was still twisting about when something else cinched around her other ankle, yanking her off her feet and lifting her high into the air.

The boy groped about, trying to find her in the choking din. Something hard slammed into his side.

A net launcher. It ensnared him fully. The boy smelled old hide and waxed leather. He snarled and thrashed, hands pinned by his sides. He tried biting his way free; tasted a hint of copper metal on his tongue. An electrified current coursed through the net, dropping him in a tangled heap.

Telin saw none of this. One moment Neera and the boy were advancing; the next there was a cloudburst of soot. By the time it cleared the two were wriggling in their respective snares.

Telin backpedalled quickly, hauling Kelpo with him.

Something struck him in the back of his thigh, stunning him. The return whirl of the staff lashed against his chest, driving the wind from his lungs; before whirling about and tangling itself between his legs. Then Telin was on his back, staring up into the business end of a hand-carved staff.

Their assailant was leathery and bald-headed; studded with primitive piercings and painted with tribal markings. Small bone earrings jangled in the dark. He smiled brightly down at Telin, large gaps between missing teeth.

"Swazdo'lah Surah." Parson-Luk held the staff pressed against the underside of Telin's chin, cupping it towards him. "Your city is strange to me. But the hunt… the hunt remains the same."


	17. Chapter 17

"Sir… it's escalating."

\- City Watch Communique, Prospect 141

* * *

The golem landed amidst the stricken mercenaries; _on_ them, in one particularly terminal case.

The mercenaries were not learned men. They had not travelled the Solar Rail, nor seen the infinite wonders and terrible beauty that awaited in the stars above. Their lives were as simple as they were brutal: confined to the squalid tenements and skeletal gantries of low-colony life in the gutters of the Corpus Empire. Muscle for profit. Culture and mystery far escaped them.

The Warframe's ornamentation shocked them. It was a bejewelled, gaudy thing; a spritely metal jester wrenched from the design of a twisted mind and made very real by master craftsmen and Technocyte fleshsmiths. Every inch of it was patterned and engraved with loving detail. Gold, alabaster, clashing reds and vivid yellows; a riot of colour and nonsense. It regarded them with an avian tilt of its head. Small earrings flashed and jingled at either end of its diamond shaped head.

The next man to draw lost an arm. It was hard to follow quite how this occurred. One moment his hand clamped onto a holster; the next that very same hand twisted and spun through the air, still clutching the repeater it so desperately needed. The sound of the bladed whip in the Warframe's hand split the air after the fact; the lashing, crack reverberating against the high vaulted ceiling.

The dismantled market formed an arena, delineated by collapsed tents, slumped stalls and scattered bric-a-brac. She was surrounded on all sides.

The mercs went to sight their target, only now there were five. Five jesters chuckled as it enjoyed their confusion; the quivering rattle of their guns as they switched aim from one jester to the next, hands shaking. Some kind of mimicry, some foul Void trick. It did not matter. What mattered were the twinned Furis sub-machine guns clamped in the golems' collective hands. The Warframes bowed theatrically in unison; an illusion, an impossibility; a damned mirage.

Sara laughed, and the killing resumed in earnest.

* * *

Telin twisted in his restraints, earning another glare from Neera.

"Quit it already. There's no give."

"Excuse me for trying!"

"You think I haven't?!"

"Quiet, both of you!" Kelpo growled. He was coming around from the painkillers now, and regretting every second of it.

The three were bound together by a single beam of hardened bamboo; hands trussed by thick corded rope. Small bells tied along the rod jangled and chimed whenever Telin tried to test the rope in vain.

Parson-Luk laughed, prodding Telin with the stick once more. Embedded through the end of the stick was some kind of primitive cattle prod. Telin learned this the hard way.

"Calm yourself Surah!" the toothless tracker grinned. "Those ropes - Earth-vine; not easily broken!"

With that he laughed uproariously and poked Telin again. Slung over the hunter's shoulder was yet another rope, this one connected to the bundled sack that contained the boy. Every time the boy tested his restraints, another jolt frazzled him into submission. Parson-Luk dragged him across the deck; with a wiry strength at odds with his sinewy frame.

They were in one of the access corridors leading back towards the Starport. They had left the carnage of the markets behind, though the gunfire had triggered a sector-wide lockdown. City Watch alerts rang out from battered PA systems mounted at every corner; demanding citizens remain indoors until the security sweep was complete. It wouldn't be long before Watch patrols flooded the streets; Moa teams and Bursa units strong-arming the populace back into submission.

"Not far now." Parson-Luk urged. "Boss man waiting at hangar bay."

Telin glowered but continued walking. His ear already bled from a previous clout from Parson-Luk's stick.

They left the market far behind, bells ringing as they marched toward an uncertain fate.

* * *

Mirage's thigh tensed against her ankle, and the final merc's neck popped like a dry twig; the skull all but pulverised under the crushing weight.

She let the body flop to the floor. Gun-smoke twisted through the air. At least there was no more screaming.

But for the hooting alarms, distant panicked wails and settling shell casings, you might even consider it peaceful.

A voice was yammering in Sara's ear. Or head. She wasn't quite sure. Things got muddled in Transference.

"What?!" Sara replied. "What is it?!"

The voice hollered some more, tinged with panic.

"Kidnapped? What do you mean _kidnapped_?!"

By the time she found the ambush site, her quarry was long gone.

Left behind was a starburst of soot from where a smoke bomb had gone off, and a series of crude apotropaic markings scratched into the wall. They were Ostron in origin; a warding sigil.

 _Void Demon_ , the scratchings read.

* * *

Terrenus Vern awaited them at the landing pad; flanked on both sides by a coterie of henchmen. A small hooded girl and a giant bruiser of a Grineer stood out in particular.

The brute in particular caught Telin's attention. Telin had never seen a Grineer before. He marvelled at the monster's sheer scale; the unrelentingly crude mechanisation that allowed its lumbering bulk to tower over them as it did. The monster stared straight back, impassive behind its circular white visor and round yellow eyes.

Behind them waited a transport shuttle, its landing ramp extended.

"All present and accounted for?" Vern asked, arms folded across his chest.

"All here, Surah." Parson-Luk nodded towards the writhing bag. "This one, too dangerous. Charc-Sack for Tenno."

Parson-Luk winced at Isolde's scowl, then bowed apologetically. "Sorry Isolde-Surah. Too dangerous for Parson-Luk. Tenno get free? Bad… bad utz."

"Prepare them for transport." Vern ordered.

Parson-Luk produced a machete from his belt and systematically freed them from the bamboo stick, slinging it over his shoulder with a neat flicking roll of his hand; leaving the prisoners' hands restrained but rendering them comparatively mobile. Hired crewmen lined the prisoners up in line before Terrenus Vern, who studied them coldly.

Vern stepped closer, examining Telin and Kelpo in particular. He was no taller than Telin, but carried himself in a lean, dangerous manner. For every pocket and harness decorating Telin's scrappy environment suit, Vern seemingly had a matching holster and blade in return.

Vern reached up and removed his goggles. He had no pupils. Just cold expanses of grey metal, dimpled with green sensor studs.

"Telin Voss. Kelpo Marr." He said simply, expression unreadable as he paced before them. "I admire your resourcefulness. My employer is particularly displeased with the damage to his mining drill. An expensive loss, for a salvage job."

" _Our_ salvage job." Kelpo spat blood on the deck. "Our find, properly reported. Your goons started it, we finished it."

"I don't disagree." The ghost of a smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. "But this is Venus; frontier work. Justice and profit seldom correspond. You escalated the scenario."

Vern was almost nose to nose with Telin.

"More pressingly, you killed my men."

This time it was Telin's turn to sneer.

"Well." Telin nodded toward the bag writhing on the deck. "That was really more of a group effort."

Vern pursed his lips, nodded calmly; then buried his fist in Telin's stomach. Telin's knees hit the floor, the wind driven from him. Neera and Kelp started forward but the giant Grineer growled and reared up; brandishing a cannon fully wider than Kelpo's shoulders. They froze on the spot.

"Consider it a mercy you're wanted alive," Vern turned and strode toward the transport. A brief hand signal got the entire crew moving.

Rough hands hauled Telin off his feet. He could still hear Vern's voice drifting through the tears as they manhandled him towards the transport.

"Though after Bravic's through with you, I expect to be mistaken."

* * *

The buyer's arrival did not come with grandiose announcement or fanfare. Like so many landmark moments in the colony's history, the arrival of Kef Mehrino's buyer was little more than a forgotten hello at a reception desk.

Jef Anyo was a loyal member of Anyo Corp. This perhaps was something of an understatement. Jef had changed his name, had undergone extensive facial reconstruction and deep-dive memory replacement to better serve the Prophet of Profit. Even the cybernetic faux-goatee affixed to his chin carried the sigil of Anyo Corp.

This level of obsessive detail extended to his day job too. Jef Anyo manned the reception desk of the trading house with a diligence that bordered on the fanatical. He filled forms faster and more efficiently than any member of Kef Mehrino's team. Jef knew every trader's name by voice, every rival guildsman by sight. This was not an easy thing to do. Indeed, of his allotted fourteen hours of personal time a week, he spent fully half of it memorising faces on the Intra-Guild, to better prepare himself for his solemn duty.

This meant that when the buyer arrived at Jef Anyo's, a complete stranger, it took him by surprise.

The man was not dressed in the typical folding robes of an Anyo devotee, or even the rugged practicality of a regular Corpus trader. His robes were ornate, but of a style and cut fundamentally at odds with the clean, utilitarian shapes and cold greens that defined fashion in the Upper Tier Towers.

Still, there was no mistaking it. This was a man of considerable wealth and taste. Though strangely cut, the beige robes and deep navy poncho did little to hide the suit of form-fitting, glimmering body armour that encased his frame. An elegant sword hung at the small of his back; as ornate as it was lethally sharp.

The trader's face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed had. Meshwork stencilled the exposed skin around his jaw, and he moved with a flowing grace that seemed astoundingly silent for such a tall and imposing figure.

It was only when he tapped the platinum rings on the marble counter top that Jef Anyo jumped, mortified, and noticed he was there at all.

"Hello!" Jef Anyo stammered, his data slate almost flying from his hands as he launched to his feet, rattling off his trademark greeting as he attempted to rally:

"Welcome to Anyo Corp; Chosen Disciples of the Prophet of Profit. How can we help you?"

The man's voice carried a mechanical burr; his voice smoothly modulated.

"There is a trader here by the name of Kef Mehrino. Take me to him."

"I understand you and your peers have come into contact with something quite precious."

"I… I am not sure I follow. The Assistant Director is a busy man. I am not privy to his business."

"Kef Mehrino will understand. He received a communique from one of his sub-contractors approximately six minutes ago. It is imperative I speak with him, immediately."

Jef Anyo bristled at the stranger's presumptive tone.

"Have you an appointment?" Jef's response was automatic.

The buyer's eyes were hidden beneath a visor comprising three metal strips, but his lips were tight as he set a single platinum chit on the counter.

Jef's eyes widened. His jaw dropped open.

The trader leaned forward, his voice a luxuriant purr.

"I do now."


	18. Chapter 18

" _This is a Security Lockdown. All non-essential personnel are required to remain in their homes and await formal inspection. Failure to adhere to these instructions may result in immediate termination, confiscation of their property and contractual service obligations for any known family and associates._

 _Have a Profitable Day, and thank you for choosing Anyo Corp."_

\- City Watch PA announcement

* * *

Far above the market place, Sara-as-Mirage stalked back and forth across the pipework; pacing like a caged tiger.

"They're gone. _He's_ gone."

"Define gone." The man's voice was tinny; popped-through atmospheric interference.

"Absent, vanished; absconded. Otherwise _not here_."

"Last known location?"

"You're looking at it."

"Void's _Teeth,_ Sara. _This_ is why we tell the Lotus."

"Don't start. Look, the scan I sent you. Recognise it?"

"Of course. Ostron markings. A ward of some kind."

"Yeah, and we're on _Venus_. Corpus may be soulless profit junkies, but they're predictable. They keep records. Find me a crew manifest employing an Ostron mercenary. There can't be that many."

"On it. What's your plan?"

Sara's frame stopped in her tracks. She had spotted something below.

"Leave that to me."

Sara crouched low on the pipework, her Mirage tensing unconsciously even without her direct input.

At the furthest edges of the market, she could make out the Corpus sweeper teams, commencing their lockdown; the flitting pulse of drone repulsors and columns of marching crewmen, dressed in the oily, lime-green livery of the City Watch. The City Watch for this part of the city were comparatively grubby relative to their Upper Tier counterparts; their gear dented and coolant-stained, but no less ruthless.

Directly beneath her, some three blocks from the encroaching taskforce, a number of shadows flitting across the broken clearing, darting from corpse to corpse. Too small to be adults. Street-urchins, wrapped in patch-worn cloaks. Small grubby hands worked quickly; stripping the dead. Credit chits, gang rings; even gold teeth.

Most urgently, they salvaged any weapons they could find, stuffing them into makeshift sacks. Even the broken weapons were seized, bundled away with thinly disguised haste. Nothing was spared.

The cloaked figures vanished as quickly as they arrived; darting for the distant alleyways and moving in a single direction. By the time they departed, the battlefield had been picked clean.

Mirage watched them from the shadows, yellow eyes twinkling; and followed.

* * *

Telin Voss' first view of the _Severance Package_ was of the floor grating, as it slammed into his face; the mesh imprinting his skin. His captors held him face-down on the floor; their sweaty odour overpowering. With a jolting wrench he felt HWK-44 being stripped from his suit. His pockets were emptied with brusque efficiency. Then a black canvass sack was slid over his face. Darkness swallowed him.

Telin strained to listen, doing his best to catch any salvageable detail. Any angle might give him an advantage. The slightest hope.

"Bring the Asset to the holding area." Vern's voice barked. He heard the boy kicking and grunting in protest, then another jarring frazzle of electric discharge, then silence.

More footsteps. Barked departure orders; hasty feet clanging along gantries. Take-off sirens. The deck began to thrum and wobble.

Telin was moving now. Twice his feet tripped over the shallow doorway of an internal hold. Something bumped his head; a wicked hard jolt that sliced his scalp and made him hiss. The thug escorting him chuckled, before bending him through yet another stooping doorway. Had his hands been free he might have navigated the blind journey better, but he was entirely at their bruising mercy.

With a flash of light the bag was removed. Telin was shoved bodily into a make-shift holding cell, the door squealing as it clanged shut behind him. It was little more than a storage cupboard with crude bars welded across one side of it, delineating a basic cage.

Kelpo was already sitting inside it, looking pale but alert. His hands were also bound.

"Stay here." Their guard huffed, stepping back out into the corridor and sealing the hatch behind him.

"Good suggestion." Kelpo chuckled darky. Telin smiled, bumped knuckles with him and slid into a seat beside him. Every inch of him ached.

"You intending on following it?"

Kelpo merely raised an eyebrow conspiratorially, then nodded to the ceiling above.

The decking was uneven where the cross-plates welded together: excess armour had been bolted to the hull. They were close to the edge of the ship. Kelpo knew ships, their layouts and structure. He grew up up close to the docks; how could he not? The uneven decking formed a sharp edge on one side. An oversight for what was a decidedly makeshift prison cell.

Telin followed Kelpo's glance, a dangerous grin spreading across his face.

"Good. Me neither."

* * *

Neera languished back in the transport shuttle, hands still bound.

Telin and Kelpo had been hauled away, along with the boy in the sack; the procession spear-headed by the scary young girl in the hood. When nobody went to grab Neera, she rose to follow. She didn't get very far. The lead hunter, the grizzled man the others called Vern, appeared, shoving her back onto the shuttle.

The bartender fell back into one of the restraint seats, bristling.

"Not you." Vern growled. " _You_ stay."

The hunter stood over her, alone but for the presence of the rangy Ostron tracker and the hulking Grineer bruiser. She glared up at them as they settled around her. Vern stayed by the threshold to the shuttle, returning the favour.

"You." He scowled, "I don't know you. You weren't part of the job." Vern said. He seemed intensely irritated at this interference.

"Problem boss?" The wiry Ostron hunter asked.

The wiry man had spread himself across a row of seats on the far side of the shuttle. His feet were propped up on an adjoining chair, as he counted the heaped credit chits in the sack pooled across his lap; occasionally turning one over in his hands and examining it as it glinted in the light. Bravic was ruthless, but paid well, and on time.

"It's inefficient." Brakarr interjected with a growl. "We despise inefficiency."

The Grineer browsed a holo-display projecting from his wrist; a crudely integrated, altogether battered Corpus unit. He was already researching the next affordable upgrade for his war chassis.

"Ey _Ito-da_." Parson-Luk spread his hands expansively. " _You_ say capture target. _I_ capture target."

"Three targets, not four!"

"Enough." Vern growled quietly.

The two shut up instantly.

"You're causing problems. You're beyond the job scope. I checked the records. Neera Denning. Clean record. No bounty. A _civilian_."

"You think I _asked_ to be dragged here?" Neera countered. "Take me to my friends."

Vern shook his head.

"You don't want that, Ma'am. They're dead men walking."

"You shoot up my bar, you _kidnap_ me, then _drag_ me to some rust bucket salv-barge. Least you can do is keep us together. Where are my friends?"

"Dead, I expect, or soon to be at any rate." Vern replied, matter-of-fact. "Your being here is a mistake."

"So let me go, then. Forget you ever saw me."

Vern shook his head.

"See, can't do that either. You were scanned the moment you came aboard our shuttle. Contracts Exchange Commission noted four certified bounties. The job was for three. Something doesn't add up."

"So just put a bullet in my skull." Neera sneered. "Call it a day."

"Keep this up and I will." Vern replied testily. "Right now I'll settle for delivering you to the Exchange myself and taking whatever reward they dish out."

Neera bit her tongue. Eventually, she took a breath.

"You don't want to do that." Neera said, voice calm now.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't."

"Because there's something you should know." Neera said, her voice low and venomous. "Three things, actually."

She held her bound hands up, ticking off a finger at a time.

"First, don't call me 'girl'. Not once, not ever."

She sat upright in the chair, chin tilted defiantly in defiance.

"Second, you're right about my record. Only my name isn't Neera Denning. It's Neera _Hosk_."

Vern's brow knitted; a look of mounting confusion, verging on realisation.

"Third, there's this."

Neera overturned her arms as best she could, exposing her wrist tattoo for Vern to see.

Vern's mechanical eyes took in the tattoo; scanning its gene-print; verifying the sigil in question.

Parson-Luk had hunted with Terrenus Vern on thirty hunts over three planets. He had never once seen the man lose his cool, or flinch in the face of mortal peril. The man was a rock, unflappable.

"Well." Terrenus Vern grimaced. " _Shit_."

* * *

Assistant Director Kef Mehrino waited for the com line to connect.

The Mid-Tier connections were functional, but lacked the sophistication of Anyo Corp's peer to peer networks. There was no eye-tracking software, no heart rate monitor or micro-expression playback. Simple audio-visual, and even then occasionally spotty.

Kef Mehrino didn't care. Right now he just needed Kahrl Bravic to take the damn call.

The Captain's face was distracted when he appeared on the line. Behind him, men were bustling by. The _Severance_ was evidently well underway.

"What now?" Bravic growled.

"I needed to update you. Is this a secure line?"

"I am many things, Assistant Director. Cheap is not one of them. What is it?"

"The asset we discussed previously. Retrieval has been successful?"

"Onboard the _Severance_ and inside the Containment Cell, as instructed."

"Good. Excellent. I'll be brief then. Your ship and its crew have been cleared to dock at the transmitted coordinates."

Bravic checked them as they were piped through.

"Executive Level." Bravic whistled. His eyes narrowed. "You spoiling me for the sake of it, Mehrino; or is there something you wanna share?"

"The Asset." There was no disguising the excitement in Kef Mehrino's voice. "We have a buyer."

* * *

The boy sat in the Containment Cell, legs folded beneath him. It was a meditative pose, one he had adopted naturally; some long-ingrained muscle memory. It helped keep him calm as he absorbed his surroundings.

It was an advanced room, for such a ramshackle airship. Clean deck lines, hermetically sealed. A single energy cage bisected the room, beyond which two crewmen stood guard, exchanging the occasional grumbling comment or gruff chuckle. The piece de resistance was the sustained Nullification Field that enveloped his side of the chamber. To a normal person, it might have felt prickly, even ticklish; like the static from a balloon rubbed against the skin.

To the boy it felt like an entire sense had been removed. It was like seeing a steaming hot pie, without ever knowing what it smelled like; or to witness a flash of lighting, and never once hearing the preceding thunder. His Void Sense was gone, cruelly denied by the electrostatic field. He sat there, free of the tracker's damned sack, but feeling all the more miserable; immersed in a discomfiting electric-jelly.

Isolde stepped into the chamber. The crewmen standing post quickly snapped to attention. She looked at them, expression haughty.

"Leave us."

They scarpered, keen to be away from the Void Witch.

Isolde took in the chamber, pulling her hood back; revealing dark hair pinned back in a no-nonsense bun by a single kunai throwing knife. Too young to be beautiful yet, but the signs were there; the delicate poise, the high cheekbones. She spared him a glance and offered a fleeting smile.

"They built this for me, you know. Bravic's requirement, for having Vern and his team aboard."

The boy watched her cross the room to the edge of the field, overcome by a nagging sense of the familiar. If proximity to the unnatural pressure of the suppression field bothered her, she did not show it.

"There were other crews they could have taken; other hunting parties of renown. But Bravic is Bravic. He wanted the best."

She sat opposite him, adopting the same meditative perch on the floor.. Something about her filled the boy with an immense sense of dread.

Yet she spoke amiably enough; her tone nostalgic, her manner of speech every bit as precise as his own.

"And we were the best. We have hunted, tracked and killed just about everything there is to fight in the ashes of the Old World. Rogue war bands, scaled creatures beneath the sands of Mars; hordes of shambling Technocyte. Ladahr once laughed and said there was no creature alive we could not track or kill. But then he met you."

A tinge of regret entered her voice.

"I had warned them, Ladahr and Bycek. Said they had a limited window. Ladahr was an excellent huntsman; Bycek as sure a shot as any Corpus I've seen. But they've never fought one of us before. Had no idea of our raw killing power; even one so unfocused and confused."

Isolde studied the floor for a moment, shook her head.

"Forgive me. They were family, of a sort. The only one I've known since I awoke. I do not blame you for killing them; they were warriors, killers; same as us. But I miss them all the same."

She fell silent, eyes on the floor; lost in contemplation. Now it was the boy's turn to speak.

"We knew each other, didn't we?" he said carefully. "From before."

She nodded, sadly smiling at the familiar sound of his voice. He pressed again, his voice a rasp behind the respirator:

"Everything is broken here. The people starve; shivering in hovels. The Merchant Cults rule this planet now. There is no order, there is no justice. How did this happen? " he asked. "Who _allowed_ this?"

Isolde met his eye directly; expression grim, eyes hard.

"We did."


	19. Chapter 19

" _Like all great empires throughout civilisation, the end of the Golden Reign came from several contributing factors on several fronts; culminating in a single cataclysmic struggle collectively known today as The Collapse._

 _Surviving texts formally documenting the final days of the war are seldom found, and often ravaged beyond recognition. The author has scoured every market available – antiquity fairs, flea markets, old journals, transcribed writings, both Tenno and Orokin; even the black market, where traditional methods failed and less than savoury credits prevailed._

 _What follows is but an attempt, however well researched, to chart the decline of the single greatest civilisation mankind has ever known, or indeed ever will know. It is not a perfect text. It contains conjecture, supposition, and gaps that can simply never be filled, lost forever to the sands of time._

 _Nevertheless, It is my greatest work._

 _We Corpus that survive today owe much to our predecessors: our infrastructure, our technology; indeed the very establishment of the Solar Rail that accommodates our trade fleets and permits the timely flow of Profit from one sector to the next. We chart our lineage from the Trade Guilds that arose from the ashes of the old empire; claiming our rightful place as the last true torchbearer of culture in a system ever-threatened by yawning darkness."_

\- A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal

* * *

"You don't remember, do you?" Isolde asked. "The Old War. The endless fighting, the unfathomable destruction. The _butchery_. The Sentient: adaptive and relentless; eradicating all that stood before them. The Orokin: perfect and beautiful and cruel; descending into madness as their Empire crumbled into ash and fire, beset on all sides until that savage final stroke that ended them once and for all."

The boy for his part said nothing, only watching with that same lupine stare.

Isolde heaved a sigh.

"Not that it any of it matters any more. The Old War is over. The hated machines, the Golden Lords; gone, all but forgotten. All that remains are scavengers, picking over the ashes."

A communicator mounted on her belt buzzed softly. The girl reached down and silenced it. Then she shook her head.

"Enough pondering. Our paths lay in different directions. I expect they will want you to interface with your Warframe, when the time comes. A demonstration, of a sort."

She rose to her feet, shrouding her face beneath the hood once more.

"Remember who you are. What you are capable of."

With that she swept from the room, the door hissing shut behind her.

Left alone, the boy closed his eyes, searching within. Words she mentioned tumbled through his mind, sifting through the fog of who or what he once was; all too fleeting at first.

But the boy was disciplined. His brow knitted tightly. He focused on the terms, at first unfamiliar. The Orokin, the Sentient… Warframes.

Structures began to form; deeply embedded images began to coalesce and take shape within his mind.

Of a time before the smothering darkness; of blood and fire and endless war. When his skin was metal encasing muscled-rage; and his steel sharp and true.

Slowly, he began to remember.

* * *

Sara padded along the drain pipe; leaping from wall to wall with a speed and nimble deftness that beget her Warframe's size.

Her path carried her deeper into the bowels of the colony, far deeper than she had ever ventured on her previous scouting missions. She tracked the urchins as they slid down a series of handmade ropes; loot sacks jangling as they descended.

Nobody lived this deep; nobody but the absolutely destitute. The world became a tangled labyrinth of snaking pipework and hissing grates; unlit but for only the sorriest hovel erected beneath a skeletal joist or rusted gantry. The homeless that shivered here were clad in insectoid environment suits, desperately cobbled together from ramshackle materials discarded by the Low Tier above.

More than once, she encountered a mummified corpse, rendered small and tiny in the unforgiving dark. Each had been picked clean; ransacked by their fellow unfortunates out of abject necessity.

Still the urchins descended, eventually reaching a large support column stemming down into a wide lake of sifting coolant.

They huddled at one of the smaller clusters of pipes affixed to the edge of the column. Busying themselves with something. Sara peered closer.

A grate of some kind. Some kind of oven or furnace, to her untrained eye. They each collected a hidden stash of rebreathers and passing them out amongst themselves; wordless, tightly disciplined. They stashed the guns in the same grated hatch, before vanishing into the smoky darkness without a sound.

Sara watched from afar, swooping down to inspect the stash the moment she was sure the children had departed.

They had hidden the gear beneath an old sluice valve; one of the overrun pipes for when coolant levels spilled over. It was long since water sealed; the diversion lines welded shut or else diverted to adjoining systems piping down into Venus' blasted surface even further below. The weld work was discrete but noticeable on closer inspection.

The stash was choked with woven sacks. Sara took a moment to open one. Mercenary gear; battered and improvised, but functional. And not just Corpus-issue either. These were imports from off-world: Grineer slug throwers, even a Lato or two of Tenno design. Smuggled in, stored carefully in the bowels beneath the city; far from the prying eyes of the City Watch. Somebody had been assembling this collection over a long time.

Sara was still inspecting the stash when she heard a chattering series of clicks and whines behind her.

The Tenno chuckled, rising to her feet. Her hands drifted to the twin Furis by her hips.

"Takes a lot of skill to get the drop on me." Her voice rang out, reverberating against the dense forest of pipework overhead. "Gotta question your judgement though."

"We've no quarrel with you, Tenno." A gruff voice replied. "But the weapons stay where they are."

"I've no interest in spoiling your little revolution." Sara answered, turning to face her ambushers.

There were twelve of them; crouched on all sides; rifles trained squarely on her.

They were uniformly Corpus, that much she could tell. That was about the only uniform thing about them. Their cloaks were thick and heavily insulated; their rebreathers and environment helmets alternatingly boxy and bubble-like, from one shooter to the next. Boxy respirators mounted on their chests vented steam in wispy tufts that curled in the stale air.

Tactical assessment was second nature to a Tenno. Multiple rifles; ranging from harpoon guns to anti-material beam-emitters. Pre-sighted on her location.

Sara eyed each of them in turn; prompting them to bristle nervously.

"I still fancy my chances."

"That won't be necessary." An older voice cut through the fog. More figures swept into the clearing. An army of them now. They gathered around a tall yet perilously thin man.

His mask was transparent; revealing a gaunt face and wispy beard. There was a ghastly amount of worry in his face, yet a tremendous wisdom too.

With a wave of his hand, the snipers rose to their feet, at ease.

The old man stepped forward.

"My name is Vanger Hosk. And we are Solaris United."

* * *

"Who or what is Vanger Hosk, and how should I know him?" Captain Bravic growled, arms whirring as he crossed them.

They were assembled on the bridge of the _Severance Package_ : Bravic, Vern and his team. Through the view port beyond, the Mid-Tier loomed up behind them. City Watch picket skiffs shadowed them, their weapon crews not taking their eye off the rangy scavenger barge for a second. The Severance Package was being led through a strict series of security checkpoints encircling the outer edge of the city.

A slow and laborious process, but a necessary one: The Upper Tier was exclusively Corpus controlled, and mired in bureaucracy. A shining series of corporate edifices that pierced the cloud bank high above.

The higher the ship rose, the more the scenery began to change. The air itself seemed cleaner; as ribbons clouds and floating glaciers drifted serenely by; glistening in the ever-sun. Trade galleons languished in the air above the Upper Tier; elongated boxy silhouettes that dwarfed even the _Severance_. Small shuttles darted from the colony to the ships like shoals of pilot ships.

Even Neera, shackled and with a Grineer bruiser towering over her, found herself fascinated by the vista. She had never seen the Upper Tier this close before.

"Local resistance leader." Vern was saying. "Thorn in the Corporation's side. Every major Mid-Tier bombing, armoury raid and executive shooting? Chances are Hosk had a hand in it."

"And this concerns me why?"

"Girl's his niece. His only family, far as the records show. Parents got caught in a sweep during the last uprising."

"I'm standing right here." Neera protested.

They ignored her.

Bravic studied Vern. As usual, the bounty hunter's impassive face may as well have been carved from stone.

"You think it's a credible threat?" The Captain asked. Vern's lip twitched.

"Solaris United primarily operate in the shadows. Strictly Low and Mid-Tier for the most part. A strike on us now, even under escort, would be unprecedented."

"But a possibility, nevertheless." Isolde added.

Bravic smirked at Isolde.

"You seem worried."

"I prefer prepared." Isolde replied evenly.

"Very well." Bravic turned and snapped his fingers at his com officer, Teico, "Who are the two closest crews operating in our sector."

"The _Forward Transaction_ and _Short Position_." Teico confirmed, pulling them up on a display projector. Though not as bulky and menacing as the Severance, both were long distance Scav-barges; menacing and spiky in their own right.

"They'll do. Get word to Mehrino. Tell 'em we've three ships comin', not one."

Kahrl Bravic approached Neera. He towered over her; was so close that all she could smell was diesel and overpowering sweat. He addressed Vern as he leered at her.

"And get this _terrorist_ off my ship. The Exchange will pay you handsomely, I expect."

* * *

"Hurry up!" Telin grunted.

"Almost there." Kelpo promised.

"Almost doesn't cut it. You're not as light as you think you are."

"Shut up and let me focus!"

The two scavengers were furiously attempting to saw through their bonds.

It was not an easy or graceful process. The edge in the wall plating they needed to reach was a good height off deck level. This meant taking turns. This meant Telin giving Kelpo Marr a boost. The two men swayed, an unlikely ladder. Both were already exhausted, battered and bruised. The Earth-vine was as strong and stubborn as the Ostron promised.

But it was not invincible.

Little by little, it began to fray.


	20. Chapter 20

" _They say the Rail was built on technological advancement. On science so powerful it could be considered magic. That may be so._

 _But one cannot discount the brutal necessity of slavery. It is the way of things, however unpalatable. Some dispute this, claiming that our own Trade Fleets are the result of ingenuity, or entrepreneurial perseverance. They forget their history._

 _Every great Empire has been built on the biting sting of the lash, and the sweat of the lesser. Consider: what would the High Merchant be, without the contribution of the tireless crewmen?_

 _For the Golden Lords, the Grineer were no different. Gene-stock, mass produced by the fleshsmiths and bred for brute strength and endurance above all else. There was no regard for aesthetics here; no obsessive symmetry or golden garnishing. Simply numbers, and the ability to replenish those numbers once their simple clone bodies broke down; rotting away from toil or intentionally programmed decay._

 _They were never intended to last, or think. Only to serve. The Orokin lost sight of this, and today the entire Origin System pays the price._

 _We Corpus would do well to learn from our ancestors' folly."_

\- A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal

* * *

They waded through the coolant, sloshing as they advanced beneath a dense vine-work of intestinal piping. Single file, their hooded heads bowed and silent as they trudged onward. A series of drones had been deployed about the column, shimmering over the coolant-lake like fireflies; their spotlights picking over the sea of coolant and marking a path for those without suit-lamps to follow.

Occasionally the lamps would catch movement in the lake; as metallic scales of small fish flitted and jinked beneath the surface; drawn to the luminescent glow by some programmed instinct.

Vanger Hosk kept pace with Sara, seemingly unintimidated by Mirage's alien appearance. If the effort of wading through the syrupy coolant affected the older man in any way, he did not show it.

"Where are we headed?" Sara asked; her voice emanating from around the Warframe like an ethereal echo.

"East." Hosk replied, pointing ahead. "More allies await."

Sara craned her neck around, taking in the streams of fighters all bound in the same direction.

They were of all shapes and sizes; men, women; even children barely older than Sara had been before that fateful event on the Zariman an eon ago. Few were as well armed or armoured as Hosk's guard, who stood apart both in their training and their discipline. The rest were volunteers, local resistance fighters of no fixed affiliation beyond a combined hatred of the Board.

Sara watched a young boy put a foot wrong; sliding beneath the coolant with a strangled yelp. Stronger hands hauled him back above the surface, spluttering; eliciting a chorus of chuckles throughout the rank and file.

He was twelve, at a push.

Sara looked at Hosk.

"You're sending kids into battle?"

" _Volunteers_ , Tenno." Hosk corrected insistently, "Nobody here is under duress. Solaris United sounded the call, and these brave few answered. Each have lost loved ones to the Board; mothers and fathers, lovers and friends; husbands and wives, even children. Security sweeps, malnutrition; the list of the Board's atrocities are endless."

"And that justifies it?"

Hosk looked up at the Warframe, expression grave.

"What age were you Tenno; when you first went to war?"

For once, Sara had no answer.

"It's a question of justice. The price for it. I struggle with it daily. Then I consider our enemy. The Board could run their operation solely through proxies. They have the auto-manufactories, the means to design better and more sophisticated automatons."

Hosk gestured to the vast colony above them.

"Instead slavery. Mandatory sentencing. Indentured Contract Work. Targeted food shortages avoiding starvation, but only narrowly so. Control by any other definition; through systematic brutalisation of the populace. No longer."

Sara could make out vast silhouettes in the distance. Boxy shapes on the horizon.

Hosk continued, relentless.

"Tell me this, Tenno. Have you ever seen a new crewman, up close? The process the Board inflicts; to those who do not willingly flock to their temples, and swallow their scripture?"

"No."

"I'll tell you what happens. Their bodies are shorn of hair; stripped of dignity and self; their bodies stencilled; their minds and personalities erased. Forced into a servile existence, destined to die on some far flung hole at the end of the Rail. All in the name of Profit."

"No." Vanger Hosk shook his head, speaking to himself now. "Better to die standing. To die free."

"That's a nice speech. Well-rehearsed. Why do I get to hear it?"

"Because our paths lay in the same direction, Tenno. You're here looking for a boy, one of your own. The same boy that left six men broken in The Mangled Moa; and led an army of thugs, miscreants to certain death at your hands."

"You're well informed." Sara sniffed.

Hosk eyes twinkled mischievously in the dark.

"I am an interstellar terrorist and an enemy of the Board, Tenno. I would be a disappointment if I weren't."

Sara smiled inwardly despite herself. Her Warframe rolled its neck, a subconscious tic from the Transference Link.

"There's a proposal coming here. Let's hear it."

"Very well. The fight in the Market. A girl was taken alongside your friend. My niece, Neera. I would have you find her, rescue her. This is our fight, not hers; and she has lost so much already."

"What makes you think I'll help you?"

"Because you are Tenno. The Board call you Betrayers; cold mercenaries and phantom butchers, but I have walked the Rail, have witnessed the feats of the Tenno first-hand. You stand for justice; a justice so sorely lacking here on Venus."

Sara said nothing for a moment. The Warframe strode on, before her voice eventually emanated once more.

"You can get me to my friend?"

"I can get you into the Upper Tier. The rest is up to you."

"Deal." Sara said, without even the barest hesitation."

Hosk blinked. Even he couldn't contain his surprise.

"Really?" He spluttered "That's it?"

"You seem surprised."

"I… no, it's just that I thought it would take some convincing!" Hosk admitted.

Mirage shrugged.

"I've done a lot of crazy things in my time, Hosk. Killed a _whole_ lot of people. Saving one doesn't seem like such a bad idea. You get me to my friend, I'll get your niece back."

"You have my word." Hosk promised solemnly.

They had come to a small clearing. Before them were a fleet of scavenger fliers; cargo haulers and junk-ships for the most part, salvaged from the surface and lovingly repaired over the years. The transports uniformly bore the trademark boxy shape of Corpus craft, albeit stencilled in the livery of Prospect 141's Resistance.

The smaller escort craft were more ramshackle, spindly things altogether; all swooping lines and custom recurve wings. Some hand had been disassembled off-world, and shipped here; piece by piece. These fliers were two man craft; each as vibrantly coloured as they were uniquely styled - an utter rejection of the Corpus dogma.

Engines began to keen and whine as they powered up.

All around them, the Resistance flooded in, clambering into the transports; dripping with coolant.

Sara projected her voice louder, to be heard over the din.

"Even with all this, you're still vastly outnumbered. They have auto-manufactories, orbital support; an entire army in the City Watch. You're outnumbered a thousand to one."

Vanger Hosk uttered a dark chuckle as he mounted up.

"We don't need numbers, Tenno. We have you."

* * *

In the Upper Tier, life continued as it always did. The streets were calm, civilised. Traders went about their day, attended by armed escort and swirling shoals of drone assistants. The rectangular Trade Temples dominated the horizon, where good Corpus came to venerate the Guilds and give thanks to the Void.

Also prominent was Watch Control: an onyx ziggurat bristling with communications towers, landing pads and defence turrets. It served as the central control point for all Corpus operations in Prospect 141. Beyond, vast data stacks rose up like sky-scrapers; harnessing the vast computational power necessary to facilitate the Bee-Cloud network.

None of these places was their destination.

Vern's shuttle headed for the comparatively subtle tower known as The Commission Bureau; the local seat of The Exchange in Prospect 141. An ivory structure, it lacked the stylised iconography of the temples, or the brutalist menace of Watch Control. Yet there was something distressingly sinister in its simple bureaucratic presentation. Fronted by a wide plaza lined with polished grey steps, it seemed unnaturally quiet, for a place that attracted all manner of hired guns from across the sector.

The shuttle kissed down on the plaza. Brakarr rose to his feet, squatting to avoid bumping his head against the low ceiling as he departed. Parson-Luk pulled Neera to her feet, hustling her down the loading ramp. Neera's face was ashen, the fight all but gone from her face. She had played her trump card, and Bravic had laughed in her face.

Vern didn't blame her. The Exchange's reputation preceded it.

Isolde lingered behind. Vern noticed immediately.

"Something the matter, kid?"

"It is nothing." Isolde shook her head brusquely.

She went to push past. Vern's hand landed on her shoulder; servos whirring.

"If it were nothing you would be first out that door. Let's hear it."

"This girl. This is not her fight. We never took the contract, never knew she was involved."

"She's a mark, same as any. A valid contract, certified by the Exchange. We don't make the rules-"

"—'We enforce them.'" Isolde finished for him. She sighed, plucked his hand from her shoulder and sat down in one of the benches. "It does not make it sit any easier."

Vern stepped back into the shuttle, occupying the seat across from her.

"When we first met, I told you two things. You remember?"

Isolde nodded. She quoted him from memory.

"'I'm not a Tenno, or Orokin, or any other sort of label beyond what I _choose_ to be. That I wouldn't have to fight for anyone but myself.'"

"And the second?"

Isolde looked up at him, meeting his eye with a hardened stare.

"That nobody in this galaxy looks out for us. Only _us_."

"That's right." Vern nodded encouragingly. He leaned forward.

"Consider this. The cut from her mark is going to extend Brakarr's life by another three years. It gets medicine for Luk's family, and us passage off this rock. No more small squabbles or petty ice feuds. Only big hunts. Just like you wanted."

Isolde said nothing. Vern pressed again, cajoling her as if she were his own.

"Look, I know it's not pretty. But that's the job. That's the life we chose. Have I ever lied to you?"

Isolde shook her head vehemently.

"Never."

"Then trust me on this: we're gonna do this job, we're gonna get our cut and never look back. I promise."


	21. Chapter 21

_"It could be said that the Orokin were a victim of their own ambition._

 _The Rail was established, their Empire secure through expert diplomacy and ruthless military expansion. The Seven stood dominant, equal above all others; splendid and eternal. And yet still they grew restless. There were no worlds left to conquer, no frontier that had not been tamed and paved beneath their feet._

 _Except beyond. The Tau System. Past the furthest reach of their gilded grasp, and all the more tantalising for it. Even with our ancestor's renowned longevity, reaching it proved impossible. The Void betwixt was a death sentence for any born of flesh and blood. The Orokin, not to be outdone by such petty constraints, proved ever-inventive once more._

 _Thus began the terraforming project. Machines; boundless in adaptability and sharing their creator's curiosity and ambition. A design unparalleled in self-replication and independent machine learning. They would establish a beach-head for all future Orokin to follow. Programmed only for expansion; unclouded by sentiment or mercy._

 _Their adaptability carried with it a fatal flaw: a predilection for future site analysis and game projection. The machines saw what had become of the Origin System; the dominance the Seven enjoyed. Of how the machines themselves would fare, under such an eventual scenario._

 _As they flew across boundless space, besieged by the Void around them, their procedural model came to a single, logical conclusion. They turned back._

 _By then, they called themselves a new name: The Sentient._

 _We knew them by another: The Destroyer._

 _A salient lesson to us Corpus: tread carefully when exploring the Unknown._

 _Too often, the Unknown is all too willing to explore back."_

\- A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal

* * *

While the Resistance of Prospect 141 amassed in the depths of the city, and a small shuttle touched down outside The Exchange Bureau, quite another disturbance caused consternation throughout the Upper Tier. An auspicious arrival, from distant parts unknown.

The barge had arrived earlier that morning, right about the same time the mysterious buyer appeared in the reception of Kef Mehrino. It was an unusual clipper; one of elegant design and extraordinary detail. It had no visible armament of any kind, and yet no armament was seemingly necessary: after all, who in the name of the Void would wish to harm such an elaborate work of art?

Such was the presence the barge made that even the traders, caught up in their high-cycle activity, flocked to the edges of the Executive Landing Pad, marvelling from afar like fawning courtesans.

The ship was undoubtedly ancient. It had a sleek, curving hull and the bone colouration the Orokin so often favoured, encased by a rib-like exoskeleton of silver and steel. The sloping fuselage tapered back into a fat nest of engines; fluted and gilded. A single brass disc was inset into the side of the hull, carrying a Guild marking which nobody recognised; detailed in the swirling Orokin script.

A collector's edition surely; likely replicated at great expense.

Its ornamentation notwithstanding, the barge was massive. Five storeys tall. An exorbitant landing fee had been levied upon its arrival, and paid without hesitation or complaint. That itself raised eyebrows.

Prospect 141 for all its scale was a comparative backwater, and levied a significant premium on its few luxury berths accordingly.

The mysterious ship remained the talk of the Upper Tier for the rest of the afternoon. No crew had been sighted, no external guards or signs of internal activity. Just the ancient museum piece; resplendent in gold; as ancient and enigmatic as the Void itself.

* * *

Assistant Director Kef Mehrino sat on one side of the boardroom table, flanked on either side by a member of the City Watch; whose only sound was the soft tick-purr of their respirator units. A cheap power play on Mehrino's part, but he was Corpus to the bone, and took what little comfort he could in the traditional methods. For today was proving anything but traditional.

Seated across from Mehrino was his buyer. Or his buyer's proxy, at the very least.

The mysterious trader identified himself as Eythan. There was no further title or descriptor forthcoming. Even the phrase trader seemed sorely inadequate: he was far too well armed, for one. When Mehrino bade him to sit, the trader nodded, then first set an elegantly curved nikana on the table with a heavy thud. He carried no firearm of any kind. Kef eyed the ancient weapon, doing his best not to swallow audibly.

When Eythan eventually sat, the golden chain of his sculpted armour clicked beneath the folded robes that draped across his shoulders.

For his part Eythan sat alone, unaccompanied by guards or drone escort. This did not diminish from his presence in any way. He opened the meeting with a deep voice that resonated throughout the entire chamber. There was a cybernetic burr to his voice.

"My employer bids you greetings, and presents an initial token of his appreciation for receiving me on such short notice."

Something was slid across the table. Platinum, thickly stacked; a small fortune in and of itself.

Kef Mehrino then did his best not to salivate openly as he pocketed it.

"I accept your generous gift, and bid you welcome to Prospect 141." Mehrino said instead, "How may we trade this day?"

A projector inset into one of Eythan's many rings fizzled to life; depicting Captain Bravic's barge, the _Severance Package._ It rotated in the air before them.

"Your contractor is in possession of a Tier Zero find. A Warframe, to be precise; together with its original Operator. A unique find. We wish to make a bid for its acquisition; together with the original Liset and associated contents."

Kef's eyes narrowed to slits.

"I welcome your interest, Trader Eythan, but must ask: how is it you are aware of our activities? We only made sight of the discovery recently, and even then our activities were undertaken with the strictest measure of secrecy. Your appearance here is timely. Suspicious even, if you don't mind my saying."

Eythan shrugged, as a mountain might shrug.

"My employer has forbidden me to reveal trade secrets. It is sufficient to say that he has been seeking this asset for some time, and that it is of particular value to him. This is reflected in the degree of personal compensation on offer."

The deal began. An ancient ritual to a Corpus. It was what they lived for: the cut and thrust of hard commerce; battlefields delineated by thin margins and speculative minefields. Where victory came from ruthless brokerage, without hesitation or remorse. It was a dance of sorts, with prescribed steps and careful movements.

The only difference here was the vast sums potentially for the taking.

Kef Mehrino took a breath, calming his racing heart. He began.

"I see. My operatives have informed me that the asset is priceless; how would you quantify such compensation?"

The invitational prospectus. The hallmark of any shrewd trader. A deal lived or died based on the trader's ability to communicate the understanding of their asset, undercut the counter-party's offering and instead a submit a rationalised sum supported by counter-fact and market evidence.

Or at least, that's how it was meant to go.

For this Eythan fellow was no trader. He was scarcely even a card player. If he had the patience or acumen for business, it was evidently superseded by access to his client's spectacular wealth and a willingness to deploy it whenever circumstances required.

Which was why the next words out of his mouth immolated Corpus protocol.

"How about this colony, for starters?"

* * *

The only sound inside the transport ships was a reverberating drone, as the deck thrummed beneath steel-capped boots. The Resistance fighters packed thickly into the hold; the emergency lighting bathing them in a baleful red glow.

The fighters checked and rechecked weapons; turning and inspecting one another like preening apes; cinching a webbing strap here, or tightening a rebreather hose there. Private rituals were observed. Pendants were touched to the front of facemasks, or silent prayers said to forbidden gods long outlawed by Board decree. These were men and women from all walks of life; all shapes and sizes. Miners and scav-haulers; hucksters and arms dealers. Gang members, reformed and seeking to finally channel their directionless rage in a way that mattered.

Eclectic and varied, united only by common purpose. The Warframe stood apart from them all; silent and menacing in the back of the hold. Sara kept to herself, seemingly ensconced in some private meditation.

Hosk watched his people make ready; listening to the call and return over the com line. He had split his fellow Solaris operatives throughout the rank and file on the other transports. Both to bolster the spirits of the volunteers and to lessen the prospects of the command tier being decapitated by a single lost dropship.

Hosk was nervous. The Tenno's arrival had accelerated his schedule by several months, but this was it. In his bones _this was it_. Comprehensive forward planning stood to him. The timers were set, fireteams mobilised and sleeper agents activated.

Now all that was left was the hard part: the waiting.

Even so, a few words were called for. Expected, even.

Vanger Hosk opened the com line. His words piped through to each of the resistance fighters clumped in the transports, to the separate cells laying in wait across every tier in the colony. This deep in the city, the line was poor, yet somehow it worked; the rustling static granting his resolute, gravelly voice a certain gravitas. He kept it brief:

"Men and women of Prospect 141. This is it. The moment we've been waiting for all these years. No more will we be sold into servitude; bartered like cattle by soft hands proclaiming themselves to be our betters. Stick with your team leaders, remember your training. For the colony, for you and yours and all others to come - good luck."

There was no dramatic applause or wild cheers. The vast majority of the combatants were novices; lost in their own obsessive thought or too worried sick to react. Even so, there were nods throughout the hold; an occasional flashed thumbs up here and there. Hosk nodded. That would have to do.

He twisted his inner wrist upward, checking the timer mounted on his hard-suit.

Thirty minutes out.


	22. Chapter 22

" _The Sentient's return to the Origin System was marked not by fire or destruction, but by silence. A gradual darkening of the defence grid. Entire towers and relays disappeared as the machines fell upon the Orokin border, exterminating any and all in their path._

 _There is no formal estimate of casualties; I suspect that if such a number were found, today's audience would find it scarcely credible._

 _The Seven were paralysed at first. The Empire had been secure for so many centuries; such an immediate existential threat proved difficult to comprehend. Their technologies were failing; co-opted by a machine born from the very wellspring of Orokin sophistication._

 _As in war, so too trading; surprise can be the most powerful advantage of all."_

\- A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal

* * *

"What's taking so long." Captain Bravic growled. He slouched in his command throne, listless.

The bridge was quiet. They had been slowly drifting around the Upper Tier for some time now, led by nav-drones that seeded a flight lane of bleeping beacons before them. The route was meandering, nonsensical: a holding pattern, if Bravic had ever seen one.

Their City Watch escort was still with them. Even they seem bored, staring out over the horizon; the novelty of the _Severance Package_ long forgotten.

"Mehrino's instructions, Boss." That was his helmsmen, Pohld. "We're to come around by the Executive Tower prior to landing."

"We're being paraded." Bravic glowered.

"Seems that way, Cap."

"Void's Teeth. _Fine_ , but we're chargin' extra for the privilege."

* * *

The _Severance Package_ drifted by in the distance, a gnarled, rusted brute rendered serene in the Venusian sun.

The boardroom by comparison was cool, almost festive in atmosphere. Mehrino had agreed terms with his buyer quickly.

With the briefest of thumbprints, the Agreement of Exchange was signed, and Prospect 141 became most assuredly his. All he need make now was one small delivery.

A moment to savour: Assistant Director no longer.

Now he was Colony Director. Or Chief Executive. Mehrino wasn't quite certain what his title should be, yet. A decision for another time.

Even so, a celebration was in order.

He invited all his friends. Spur of the moment; little forward notice. An open invitation, heated and spontaneous, with a promise of finger food.

Five hundred invites, splashed out with wild abandon from his personal inbox.

Six people arrived.

The first to do so was Kren Maruk, the City Watch supervisor. His presence was more out of dogged duty than true friendship (he was reporting to his future boss, after all), but Mehrino didn't care.

Merhino thrust a glass of sparkling wine into the Maruk's surprised hands, before breezing past to greet the rest of his guests. Soon, the chiming clink of chilled glasses and polite conversation filled the air, accompanied by the lilting swell of a synthachord.

Eythan stood off to one side, brooding by the observation window; never once taking his eyes off the _Severance_.

* * *

"Almost got it!"

Rivulets of sweat pulsed down Kelpo's brow, causing his swollen face to itch ferociously. Still he sawed away at his bonds, working the vine-work against the jagged hull with demented determination.

"Hurry up!" Telin's legs quivered under the strain of lifting his friend. Even with generous breaks, this was their fourth attempt. Each attempt was proving progressively shorter.

Yet progress had been made. The bonds frayed to the barest thread; stubborn, resilient. Kelpo redoubled his efforts.

Finally, they split apart.

"Got it!" he announced, triumphantly.

An explosion slammed the hull, throwing the two men off their feet. There was a resounding chatter of what sounded like an industrial sowing machine. Sparks flew all around them, blinding them. Then a rush of cold air.

Then hell itself broke loose.

* * *

"What in the Void was that?!" Bravic roared, leaping to his feet.

Warning sirens and klaxons hooted all over the bridge. Crewmen slammed by, racing to man emergency stations and weapon ports. Outside the view-port, the remains of one of their escorts still tumbled to the ground far below.

"Registering impacts to the starboard side; third deck." Pohld reported. "Minor hull damage."

"Monitoring emergency chatter on all channels." Teico chimed in, fingers dancing across his console.

"Pohld, bring us about. Weapons online."

"We're inside the No Fire Zone." Pohld protested.

"Then kindly explain to me why we're being _fired upon_. Shields up, full alert!"

A lime green shape flashed by the bridge. A nimble, colourful thing, Bravic only caught a snatch-glimpse of its pilot; who cheekily flipped him a hand gesture universally understood as a sign of contempt across the Origin System. Then the flyer was gone, looping and twirling out of sight.

"Bring that bastard down!" Bravic bellowed, incensed.

Below them, rising from the cloud bank in unison; a great line of ramshackle transports; great and small. Bound for the Upper Tier. Headed straight for them.

More flyers darted forward, plasma weapons spitting. The hull rocked once more.

Bravic snatched up the hand receiver crudely bolted to the edge of his command throne.

"All hands, battle stations. _Defend this ship!_ "

* * *

The Battle for Prospect 141 truly began fourteen minutes earlier, in the calm and eerie quiet of a trading floor in the Upper Tier.

Jef Anyo was making his rounds as he always did, checking the efficiency rating of each of the brokers in the data pits. Trade activity was normal, healthy even. The news of the colony's impending sale had spread like wildfire. Markets reacted with all speed; establishing positions and counter-hedges. His supervisor, his own supervisor, had been gifted the colony, in exchange for a private trade. Exciting times indeed. The routine kept Jef calm.

He was crossing the trade floor when one of the low-traders stepped away from his station.

"You there!" Jef Anyo pointed. "News or no news, we're still on cycle. Back to your post!"

The man had his back turned to Jef. Jef Anyo strode forward, waving the on-duty guards over.

"I'm warning you! All bonuses are discretionary. You _will_ be penalised!"

The man turned to face him. He was shaking in nervous terror; eyes wild and frenzied.

An uncomfortable knot of fear wormed its way through Jef Anyo's stomach. He stopped where he was. The two crewmen shoved past, snapping stun-prods into life with a keening, threatening whine.

They saw the trigger-switch far too late.

"Get back!" Jef Anyo cried. "Get back—"

The world vanished in smoke and fire.

* * *

Across the city, similar detonations wracked the Upper Tier of Prospect 141. The largest was in the data-stacks; a brace of chain detonations that sent one of the towers toppling into those beside it - a cataclysmic domino effect that choked much of the upper city in swirling, cloying dust for days to come.

Sirens traditionally reserved for Grineer Invasions rent the air, sending the teeming crowds scattering for emergency shelters or evacuation transports.

The B-Cloud struggled to cope with the catastrophic data loss. Drones across the city went haywire; overloading. Many simply collapsed to the floor. Others went berserk; MOA dashing into walls or opening up on the very charges they were assigned to protect. Chaos reigned.

The aerial defence grid had been the Resistance's principal target. Entire batteries of plasma projectors lay inert; rendered little more than lumps of ornate metal. The Resistance airships sped closer and closer toward the Upper Tier, largely unopposed.

Checkpoints between the Low and Mid-Tiers lost power in an instant. Sentry beams collapsed with a resounding pop.

The City Watch manning the checkpoint were swarmed by the waiting crowds. Poorly armed in many cases, but so, so numerous. They overwhelmed the checkpoints with sheer numbers, surging through and clawing with fingernails, or crudely improvised clubs. Hissing beam weapons scythed them down in droves, but for every person slain three more flooded in, imbued with a righteous fury.

The battle began in earnest.

* * *

On their transport ship, a safe distance beyond the immediate aerial engagement Sara and Vanger watched tracer fire split the sky.

"There." Hosk pointed. "The ship that took Neera and her companions."

Sara watched the bruiser of a barge wheel about, smoke trailing from the side of its plating where one of the Resistance flyers had scored its alpha strike. The Severance had come to bear, weapons cycling to life. Igniting shield auras caused the air around the barge to shimmer and blur, like a roadway in a heatwave.

The _Severance Package_ was no slouch in ship to ship combat. It had been designed as warship first, salvage vessel second. Much of its armament had been cannibalised by the numerous surface raiders who had tried to best it over the years, and failed. Its armament reflected these diverse victories.

Harpoon launchers, Grineer flak cannons and looted Vruush turrets. The air suddenly filled with cloudburst shrapnel.

One hapless flyer flew clean into it; erupting in a starburst of trailing fire. Others swooped in, vengefully pressing the attack.

Mirage pushed to the edge of the hatch, turning to Hosk.

"Get me closer."

"And the risk the transport?" Hosk shook his head. "This is our window. We press on."

"We won't be saving anyone if your men blow that bucket out of the sky."

"We won't. But we're committed. As much I hate to say it, Neera and her friends are on their own for now."

Mirage seemed to glower as much as a Warframe could glower, but said nothing.

Below, mobbed on all sides by Resistance flyers, shields shivering from multiple impacts and weapons blazing in return; the _Severance Package_ went to war.

* * *

Telin flinched as another scatter of shots stitched the hull.

They had been extraordinarily lucky to survive the first pass. A whistling series of holes been punched through the plating around them, narrowly missing them on both sides. The far wall containing the supply locker was shredded, dented and buckled, its contents spilled across the floor.

Telin blinked and patted himself down, astonished to learn he had avoided being perforated a dozen times over. The sound of rushing air was deafening. The internal temperature was plummeting, fast.

"Who the hell is shooting at us?!" Telin yelled.

"Shooting at _them_ , I reckon!" Kelpo bellowed back. " _We_ just happen to be stuck in the way."

"We need to move!"

"Agreed! Suggestions?"

Telin eyed the scattered contents of the locker. Some bonding tape, a series of old rebreather cartridges, and a particularly disheveled mop of limited value and even more questionable hygiene. Very little of it was within his immediate reach.

Still he grasped for it, grunting with the effort.

He was still straining away when Kelpo simply pushed the door of their makeshift cell open with a yawning squeak.

A stray piece of shrapnel had shaved the crude lock mechanism away, together with most of the far hatchway beyond. Once more, Telin gave thanks that he had somehow _not_ been painted across the inner hull.

Telin looked up, confused. Kelpo shrugged.

"You complaining? Sometimes we don't _need_ to scavenge."

* * *

The boy sat cross-legged on the floor. When the first explosion happened, his eyes opened slowly.

He frowned in mild irritation. He had been close, so very close.

Then the alarms went off, and the room bathed itself in red. His guards abandoned him, rushing to assigned positions elsewhere. The Nullification Field remained where it was, but the boy noticed its ebb and flow as the ship's shield array drew power elsewhere. It was subtle, but he noticed it all the same. That small but particular change in the field's sound.

Another impact, another barely perceptible change in pitch.

For all his discomfort, for all the commotion beyond the confines of his cell; the boy remained sitting where he was, the very measure of patience.

Waiting.


	23. Chapter 23

" _The Orokin were not ones to suffer invasion lightly. They possessed the most brilliant minds ever witnessed. Solutions were multi-faceted; their approaches manifold._

 _Technocyte was the first. An instinctive reaction, perhaps. Short-sighted, most certainly. A targeted biological plague, as adaptable and numerous as the very machines that had descended upon the Origin System. Accounts of where the plague was released are largely expunged from the public record, but the author is aware of a number of select, seemingly proscribed texts which indicate that the more unruly elements of the civilian populace may have been intentionally seeded with the virus. These are likely spurious claims, intended to discredit our ancestors._

 _Other accounts differ; maintaining that the plague predated The Destroyer's arrival._

 _In any event, untamed Technocyte proved too difficult to control. Impossible to harness in its raw, primal state. A control mechanism was needed. Orokin scientists raced to find a means of doing so. The presence of Dark Sectors today indicates they never succeeded._

 _In the meantime, the venerated Dax soldiery would be deployed, in numbers hitherto unseen in the history of the Orokin Empire. Their lives would be expended for time; a brutal calculus, while a more definitive solution was found._

 _It was in researching these solutions that I stumbled upon the curious case of the Zariman Ten Zero, a forgotten Orokin science vessel, all but expunged from the official record…"_

\- A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal

* * *

Kef Mehrino's fluted glass hit the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces. Outside the observation window, the horizon was a tableau of explosions and sudden flashes of plasma fires; and beyond, a line of inbound hostile transports barely visible through the haze.

He rounded on Eythan in an instant, pointing across the room.

"You! You did this! A trick, some corporate treachery! How _dare_ you!"

In the blink of an eye Kef Mehrino was choking, his throat clamped in a golden gauntlet. The strength required to lift the portly Corpus trader was superhuman. As was the speed with which Eythan crossed the chamber. Mehrino's guards stood frozen where they were, entirely intimidated by the golden warrior.

"Any more accusations, Director Mehrino, and I will silence you the _only_ way I know how."

Kef Mehrino's legs kicked in the air, as he choked for air. Mehrino's eyes bulged out on stalks, his face steadily turning blue.

"Now listen here and listen closely, _worm_ : our agreement stands, but _only_ upon _delivery_."

The last word was all but spat. Eythan released his grip; dropping Mehrino like a wheezing sack, before stalking from the chamber.

Kef Mehrino lay gasping on the floor, puce and sweating. He flapped a hand at Kren Maruk.

"Go, go you idiot!" Mehrino croaked. "Defend that ship! Defend _my_ city!"

* * *

The Exchange Commission, much like the rest of the architecture throughout the Upper Tier, was a sterile, functional space: all clean lines and spotless decking. The only difference was that this building was blast insulated, scan insulated and sound insulated; featuring a thousand security systems and inhabited by the widest variety of cutthroats, mercenaries and guns for hire this side of Venus: an oasis of bad behaviour in an otherwise sterile environment.

Yet no rules were broken here. To do so would be suicidal in the extreme.

Terrenus Vern and his team sat in a boardroom, opposite a single gaunt clerk who calmly processed their claim. They had left Neera Hosk with the guards at reception, where she would be taken for independent verification.

Two guards stood by Brakarr, a necessary precaution given his Grineer heritage. Two others stood in the far corner, arms folded behind their backs. The guards were Commission Agents; dressed in spotless white long coats, their eyes hidden by dark glasses which doubtless afforded them with all manner of scanning software. They had been heavily cyberized; though the work was expensively subtle.

The room was bare, save for a pitcher of iced water and a series of crystalline glasses. Parson-Luk reached forward with grubby hands, and started greedily drinking from the jug, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. The clerk wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Isolde hid a smile despite herself.

A face appeared on the wall monitor: a rakish man with a neatly clipped goatee and cybernetic eyes not dissimilar from Vern's own. He smiled down at them, as a teacher would to their most favourite pupil.

"Ah, Terrenus. Such a pleasure to see one of our most accomplished assets."

"Drask." Vern nodded. "Long time."

"You've been under contract on that rock for months now. Isn't it time you came back into the fold?"

"Yeah. Business first. Got a bounty for you. Consider it my buy-in."

Drask read the details as the cleric uploaded them.

"Neera Hosk." Drask whistled. "A risky proposition. Though you've never been afraid of upsetting people."

"It generally pays the bills." Vern agreed.

Their conversation was interrupted by a muffled explosion. Parson-Luk spat water across the boardroom table, twisting about in his chair; earrings jangling. Even this deep inside the Exchange, Isolde could feel the rumble in her chair. She exchanged a glance with Vern.

The Exchange Agents stood as they were, unmoved. Drask's expression remained as politely civil as ever.

"A domestic dispute. Local agitators I expect. Still, you know the drill."

A series of yellow circles appeared on the spotless white wall to their right.

"Hands on the circles until you ident is confirmed."

"Is this necessary?" Vern scowled.

"One can never be too careful, in the days of projection shrouds."

Vern's team padded over to the wall, grumbling as they lined up and pressed their hands against the yellow circles. This was routine to them, but an unwelcome one. They had earned their Platinum Rating long ago.

Vern's circles turned green, followed by Parson-Luk's. Brakarr's flared orange. He flexed a cybernetic hand twice, hit it against the wall, then tried it again. It too flushed green.

Isolde's went orange, then flared an angry red. She frowned, took a step back. Tried it again.

Another pulse of angry red.

A suppression unit unfolded from the ceiling. Suddenly the room was bathed in that uncomfortable warbling energy jelly that robbed Isolde of her Void Sense. A Nullification Field.

The Commission Agents drew on her in unison.

"Ah, so it _is_ true." Drask smiled.

Vern turned and glared up at the screen.

"What's going on, Drask?"

"We'd heard rumours you were running with a person of interest, but needed to be certain. Took us a while to recalibrate the software to match the samples we'd been given. You see, there's somebody in-Sector with a great deal of credits; actively seeking people very like your young companion there. A Tenno, most unusual."

All eyes were on her now. Vern, stoic and grim. Parson-Luk, his eyes wide in concern. Brakarr's face was unreadable, but she felt his stare even through the visor. Isolde grew even paler than usual. Without her Void Powers, she suddenly felt naked and alone. She was outnumbered, significantly outgunned. Most crucially, Void Blind.

Drask's smile deepened to a grin.

"Congratulations, Terrenus. You stand to make a great deal of credits altogether."

Isolde looked at Vern. Vern looked at Isolde.

"Uh, Sir, if you would kindly place your thumb on this pad please?" the clerk asked, pushing a data slate across the boardroom table toward Vern.

Vern looked at the sum cited on the bounty slip. More than any lifetime of hunting could provide. His mouth became set. He looked back at Isolde, intently.

"Terrenus…" Isolde said. She hated the unfamiliar fear in her voice. "Terrenus please."

"What did I tell you, the day we met girl." Vern said quietly.

She blinked.

"…That I wouldn't have to fight for anybody but myself."

He gave a curt nod.

"And the second?"

"That nobody in the galaxy looks out for us…"

The words caught in her throat.

Vern nodded with grim finality. He drew faster than Isolde could blink.

The Lex sounded twice; twinned thunderclaps in the confined space.

Vern lowered the gun, barrel smoking.

The clerk's brains painted the wall as he hit the floor. The Nullification Field evaporated in an instant.

"Only us." Vern finished for her.

It was an instruction as much as any thing else. The Exchange Agents snapped their attention to Vern in a flash.

The first fell silently, a kunai lodged in his eye socket. The second went down choking, a blow-dart in his throat; rare poisons swelling his face beyond all human recognition.

The two beside Brakarr were simply lifted and bashed together like cymbals. The giant Grineer cast them aside with a wet thud.

Edmun Drask, Broker-in-Chief of the Exchange, looked down at Vern, simmering with an icy rage.

"Never figured you for the sentimental type, Terrenus."

"Nobody fugs with my team. Not even you."

"We'll hunt you for this. You know that."

The Lex sounded again. Vern dumped the entire mag into the monitor. A shower of sparks and descending glass cascaded across the floor.

"Gear up." Vern ordered as he smoothly reloaded. "We're leaving."

* * *

The City Watch's response to the invasion was groggy; punch-drunk from the blistering assault the Resistance had unleashed, yet even so they began to rally. Local drone servers were down, but the numerous trade galleys did not stand idly by as the Upper Tier erupted in fire. Open rebellion was anathema to the Corpus Order, irrespective of Guild affiliation.

Urgent distress signals were sent. While Anyo Corp had all but washed their hands of the colony, this did not mean the Corpus Navy sat idly by. Reinforcements were surely coming.

For now the Watch were on their own. Fireteams hastened through the swirling smoke, lugging anti material projectors and interceptor launchers. Long-barrelled Supra repeaters were dragged out by firing crews; their bipods hastily erected on short notice.

The Resistance craft were all but on top of them as they fanned out across the landing pads. Air processor units became command points; maintenance channels became makeshift trenches as the City Watch mustered a last minute defence in the face of the oncoming storm.

Hosk had anticipated such a response. The transports were not toothless.

Rocket pods unfolded from the dented fuselage of the transports. They were single use munitions, disposable. That didn't matter. This was a one way trip.

The rockets shrieked out, twirling into the air before slamming into the Corpus line in geysers of fire and smoke. Plasma shot and repeaters rounds blitzed through the dust, stitching across the transports. One transport's rocket pod cooked off and went up in an eruption of fire; a plume of smoking fire venting freely from its belly as it twisted and smashed down amidst the Corpus in a searing flash; vaporising everything within the blast radius.

Transports made landfall: bare metal bellies shrieking across the deck in sheets of flitting sparks. Landing hatches slammed down with a jolting clang, disgorging resistance fighters. They let out a resounding roar as they charged. Hard rounds and an exotic chatter of weapons fire joined the cacophony. Weapon crews on the upper decks of the transports hosed out a withering hail of suppressive fire. The transports became makeshift siege towers, lining the open landing pad like ominous tombstones.

Hosk was first out amongst his men. Men and women collapsed around him, cut down as they charged.

He didn't bother shooting. He just pumped his legs, hurling himself into the first maintenance trench available. Hosk didn't feel his age, or the painful bang his knees took as they hit the deck. Adrenaline buzzed through his system. Every hair stood on end; every detail rendered crystal clear from the combat high.

The other rebels reached the first marker; dog piling into a make-shift trench beside him. The trench floor was carpeted with Corpus bodies. Gasping for breath, hands shaking but determined, Hosk set his Burston on the trench lip and picked out shots. He had no idea whether he was hitting anything or not.

A shadow flitted overhead. The Tenno, sailing through the air in a twisting leap that defied all rational physics. Hosk could taste the eldritch Void on his tongue; that electro-static tang.

Mirage fell amongst the Corpus, a machine pistol in each hand. By the time the Warframe landed it was already moving, killing; laughing. Body parts flew through the air, as a ball of light seared down the Corpus trench, demolishing everyone and everything in its path.

The weight of incoming fire on the Resistance trench line slackened immediately.

"Forward!" Hosk bawled, rising to his feet. "Forward! For the colony; for your children!"

* * *

In the air, the _Severance Package_ continued to weather the storm as more Resistance dropships droned by; as a second wave brought fresh fighters to the fray. With the aerial defences down, the Resistance flyers focused the entirety of their furious assault on the bruised salvage barge. Time and time again, the shields threatened to fail. More than a few flyers were caught by its thundering emplacements; chewed into flaming shrapnel and brief gluts of fire. The _Severance's_ crew roared approval and thumped their chests with each successive kill.

And yet still the onslaught continued. Several times the shields nearly collapsed. This underscored the weight of incoming fire. Beneath its scabrous plated hide, the _Severance_ was ultimately a Corpus vessel, complete with redundant shield systems. But even these would not hold forever.

"Secondary shields at thirty percent." Pohld warned Bravic.

"Divert power; all non-essential systems!" The captain barked. "Keep us in this fight!"

* * *

Inside the boy's cell, the Nullification Field strained to fever pitch, then failed altogether; fading with a descending groan.

The boy rose to his feet, shivering as his connection to the Void flooded back.

The energy screen that formed the traditional cell was pitifully weak. He simply raised a hand and blasted the wall beside him; searing clean through the deck plating.

The boy stepped out into the corridor, wreathed in smoke. He closed his eyes, sensing through the Void.

It called to him, guiding him.

The decks were largely empty; his only encounter being with a lowly crewman who saw him, blanched, and fled gibbering in the opposite direction. The boy ignored him, instead touching a wall and breathing deeply.

Not far now. Just up ahead.

He found it in one of the engineering bays; stretched out on the table like an anatomical specimen.

The boy hesitated when he saw it. Its draw was palpable, but the feeling of nostalgia and connection almost overwhelming. The Frame belonged to him; and he, in many ways, to it.

Flesh and steel that was not his own, and yet he knew every inch, every armoured plate and curving line. He marvelled at its craftsmanship, the corded muscle of its sword-skin. Instinct called to him.

The boy placed a glowing hand on the Warframe's domed head. The Frame jolted; hands shaking as it reawakened after centuries dormant. The glowing light flowed up through the boy's arm; enveloping him as he closed his eyes.

And remembered everything.


	24. Interlude: Forging

" _Five souls. You promised twice that."_

" _Come now, Septimus, even my influence has its limits."_

" _They seem frail."_

" _Then make them less so. Your experiment, your subjects; what follows next I leave to you."_

" _Very well. And the Warframes?"_

" _Will follow in time. Remember: the need for secrecy is absolute. Margulis cannot learn of our work here this day."_

" _The Archimedean? I would have thought the opinion of a mere scholar beneath you."_

" _Consider it a personal favour, old friend."_

\- Unknown conversation, Vitruvian 4-17 (Recovery Site Redacted)

* * *

 _Then._

Reality and dreams blur. Memories churn; one into the next. Then he is beyond, seeing the Zariman from outside; its mighty sweeping lines scarred and warped from where the Void's energies had washed over the hull. A fleet of Orokin cruisers and smaller picket craft surround it. The boy's recollections lack consistency or structure. He feels rough hands handling his unconscious body. He watches this too from beyond his physical form; as if looking down from a great height.

The men carrying him are Dax soldiers; golden and resplendent in their armour. Lorists and Archimedeans swamp the corridors, marshalling the soldiers now that the initial sweep is complete, and the area secure. It is a recovery effort. Then he hears the hum-click of a cryopod. Then a dreamless peace.

Next he blinks, and finds himself in the dark, limbs restrained. He screams.

Nobody hears him.

Or so he thinks.

* * *

Hours pass. Or months, years, maybe? He blinks, and is in a chamber. It is not the Zariman. There is no thrumming engines, or chitter of ship systems. Only silence; an eerie peace.

The voice speaks to him once more.

" _Wake up, Kiddo."_

* * *

Kael awakes with a start. The Golden Man is with him. Smiling and perfumed and so impossibly tall. His radiance is almost overpowering; Kael has to scrunch his eyes and look away. The man's voice is milk and honey.

"You had another outburst. It's okay, child. Don't be afraid. You're safe here."

But Kael _is_ afraid. He cannot move, for the Chair. The other voices call it a Somatic Link. He knows it only as a prison.

Kael is not alone. He sees Isolde to his right, Sara to his left. Doric is there too; asleep and ever-dreaming.

And finally Sohren. Sohren is awake, eyes alert. He too is bound to a Chair, but does not panic. He looks directly at Kael, meeting his gaze; as strong and commanding as ever. Sohren's voice speaks to him, reassuring him as the two friends lock eyes, lips unmoving.

 _I'm with you._ _I'm here._ Sohren's confidence is iron-cast, infectious. _We're all here._

 _Me too,_ the strange voice adds, chuckling; before darkness takes Kael once more.

* * *

Time shifts once again.

The chamber is circular, high vaulted; gold on alabaster. The Somatic Link dominates the room; crude cables snake down from the high vaulted ceiling. All eyes are upon him from the Gallery. Yet another demonstration.

Before him is the Armature. It is a sorry looking puppet; a thin, wasted thing; its face a golden skeletal mask. It wears a silent rictus scream, yet makes no sound. Kael feels sorry for it. He does not know why. It is a mere puppet, nothing more.

The honeyed voice calls down from on high.

"Wear it again, boy."

Kael closes his eyes. The Armature shudders, clambering to its feet

He sees through eyes that are not his own. Feels the sinewy muscle beneath its metal skin. The Link deepens. He feels pain, and suffering that is not truly his own. He blinks, realising that he too is now crying.

Kael seems himself through the Armature's perspective: pale and small; all but swallowed by the mighty throne encasing him. He reaches out, toward it; willing himself free. Demanding it. A wire snaking into the Somatic Link pops and fizzles; sparking fitfully. The Somatic Link loses power. Yet his control remains. Transference stable. A murmur ripples throughout the crowd.

Kael flinches when the Golden Man shouts in approval, and the waiting gallery erupts in applause. Concentration is broken. The Armature flops lifelessly to the ground once more.

The Golden Lord casts his goblet down with a petulant snarl; the clang reverberates against the high ceiling.

"Again!"

* * *

Time has lost all meaning now.

They are seated as pupils, the five of them,

Their Dax is with them. He is their protector, their tutor. Their gaoler too, in many ways.

They refer to him only as Instructor. He lives up to the title. He teaches them art and poetry, science and war. A foundation of knowledge and understanding. History informs conflict, and conflict their training.

They learn of the Invasion. Of the arrival of the Sentient. That the Defence Grids have failed - are continuing to fail. That we, the Mighty Orokin, are losing. That they are known now as Tenno, and must become peerless. Anything less means certain death.

Instruction is as physical as it is mental. They are taught the striking forms, the grappling arts; even the _Thousand Feats_ : the forbidden combat techniques known only to the Dax themselves. Each day ends the same. The children on their backs, bodies quivering from exhaustion; bodies bruised and all but broken. Lorists fret over them, as the Golden Lord watches from the gallery; that cold smile forever etched on his perfect face.

Instructor demands perfection. They cannot hope to survive the battle unless their muscle-memory is just so. They must move as a Dax moves, think as a Dax would think. They must become all this and so much more.

The gun is as important as the blade. Rifles and pistols; all patterns, all designs.

The children move and shoot; floating targets cubes and brass Armatures, not dissimilar to the ones they are asked to wear with their minds, time and time again; until the process is instinctual, the Somatic Link all but unnecessary.

The forms are combined. Dummy weapons; simple wooden props issued at the start of each sparring session. The children practice on each other: grabbling, wrestling; interchanging dagger strikes with rolling throws that flow into submission chokes and practice guns pressed against sweating brows or exposed throats. No quarter is given, no movement wasted. On and on the training goes, relentless.

Exhausted, pushed to breaking point and beyond, the strange voice that beckons to each of them in the depths of the night begins to fade; replaced with the all too exacting demands of the real. Something else has taken its attention.

Every night, sleep overcomes Kael like a crashing wave.

For the first time since the Zariman Incident, the boy knows peace.

* * *

The children are reunited once more. They kneel in a line, dressed in matching Transference Suits. Their bodies are lean and sculpted; their faces alert.

This day is different. The gallery is full. A demonstration, only this one feels different.

Instructor kneels before them, eyes closed.

Two are selected. Always two.

This time it is Kael's turn. He steps forward and face his opponent. His heart sinks as he bows.

It is Sohren. Of course it is.

Isolde is more ruthless and exacting; a peerless shot, but Kael is faster, more skilled with a blade. Sara impetuous and daring, but reckless. Doric hesitates, too concerned with strategy to truly capitalise on his brute size and height. Kael has bested them all.

But never Sohren. He is that extra bit older; taller and stronger. Instructor knows this, understands the ferocious competitive streak that drives Kael; that in turn compels Sohren to be as remarkable a Tenno as he has become.

"Begin." The Dax instructs.

The wooden practice skanas are blunt, but smart when they taste skin. The wooden blades clack and crack as the two boys launch themselves at one another, feeling the eyes of the other children, and those from the gallery beyond. There is an electric tension in the air.

Kael will not allow himself to lose again.

Kael is fast. The skana dents and chips as it flashes in at Sohren, time and time again. Sohren has learned Kael's pattern from months of sparring; from the numerous bruises that decorate his forearms. Sohren is a master with a blade. What he lacks in speed, he makes up for with an efficacy and discipline Kael cannot match.

A parry here, a sidestep there. Sohren's skana counter-flashes; a calculated, single strike. Kael yelps; the skana flying from his grasp. The skana clatters to the floor. Kael's eyes water, his cheeks flush red as he clutches his smarting hand.

Sohren holds his blade up in solemn salute; tall and handsome and strong. The gallery swells with applause. He bows to Kael. Kael respectfully returns the bow, cheeks burning in shame.

The Dax looks over at the Golden Lord. The Golden Lord nods coolly in approval.

A decision is made.


	25. Chapter 25

" _Agitators are widespread. The Board must remain ever-vigilant, lest we deny the Void its due. The Grineer test our borders, yes; but the greatest threat lies from within. The Solaris must be kept in check, lest we lose the foundation upon which the our Great Economy is built._

 _The Solaris seek autonomy. Let them have it._

 _Their bodies; our terms."_

\- Nef Anyo, addressing fellow members of the Corpus Board.

* * *

Aboard the _Severance Package_ , the panicked crewman was still fleeing down the corridor when an elbow emerged from the shadows of an open hatchway, smashing him to the deck. Kelpo's boot soon rested on his throat.

"Where's Neera?!" Telin hissed in the crewman's face. Kelpo had already stripped the man of his sidearm.

The crewman gibbered something unintelligible. Telin snarled in irritation, shaking him.

"The girl! Where is she?!"

"He doesn't know anything." Kelp shook his head.

"He knows his way round this ship." Telin countered. "On your feet. C'mon."

They hauled the man upright.

"What's your name?" Kelpo asked. A friendly question, considering he now had the man's gun pressed to the base of his skull.

"Spendric." The crewman wailed. "Please don't kill me! I'm just a mechanic!"

"Okay, Spendric. You wanna live?" Telin stared him in the eye. "First you're gonna take us to your armoury. Then you're gonna show us to the bridge."

"He is?" Kelpo frowned in surprise.

"Yeah, he is."

"You're insane." Spendric breathed.

Telin Voss didn't blink as he glared at the shaking crewman.

"I'm tired. I'm pissed off. We're owed a _hell_ of a lot of credits, and by _this_ point? I'm about ready to hijack an airship."

* * *

Kef Mehrino assembled his War Council in the Boardroom Table.

A strategic overlay of the Upper Tier projected down from the ceiling. The rebels had established a beachhead on the Western Landing Deck, cutting a swathe through the City Watch's efforts to contain them. Corpus response teams had successfully stalled the advance on its furthest fringes, but the main spearhead continued deep into City Watch lines, unimpeded; a single flashpoint at its centre, where any Corpus forces seemingly vanished as quickly as they arrived.

"Reports are scattered, but one thing is certain: the insurgents have Tenno support." Kren Maruk reported, indicating the area in question. "They're headed for Watch Control."

"You mean _here_." Kef Mehrino corrected, pacing. "They're headed _here_."

"That's, uh… correct, Sir."

"How long before we can get drone servers back online?"

"Within the hour."

Kef Mehrino paced, thinking; sweating visibly. He snapped his fingers after a moment.

"The Exchange. Hire them. Tell them we'll pay them. _Anything_ they want. Just put those Tenno _down_."

"Sir, we tried that."

" _And?_ "

Kren Maruk swallowed, coughing awkwardly.

"They said they were busy. Sir."

" _Busy_?! What could _possibly_ be keeping them busy at a time like this?!"

* * *

"Fall back! _Fall back!_ "

Exchange Agents fell back down the corridor, returning desperate cover fire in thinly disguised panic as they dragged bleeding comrades back to safety. Another brace of shots cut them as they fled.

Brakarr advanced, seemingly implacable as he stormed up the corridor. Sheets of fire licked out from his rotary cannon, painting targets across the now-pockmarked white walls. He stopped at the next doorway, shying back as a flurry of shots snapped back in return; spanking off his armour.

The Grinner looked down at Vern and shook his head; smoke drifting up from the various dents dimpled across his plate-work.

"Heavy fire." Brakarr growled. "Fixed emplacement."

Vern nodded, clapping the Grineer's war rig twice. The Grineer made way, letting Vern slip by.

Vern ducked over to the far side of the doorway; chased by a scattering of shots as he crossed the threshold. He looked at the Grinner, holding up three fingers, before making a fist. The Grineer nodded. Isolde and Parson-Luk stacked up behind the brute.

Vern plucked a grenade from his webbing; smoothly tossing it through the door.

There was a muffled crump and a flash. The Empflash was a custom made, intended for contingencies involving cybernetics. Black market gear, highly illegal in Corpus circles; an expensive hypothetical, should the unthinkable happen and Vern found himself facing opponents with similar augmentations to his own.

It proved a worthy investment. Exchange Agents staggered about, utterly blinded.

Vern swept in first; the Lex snapped to bear. It sounded twice in quick succession; blasting the now blinded machine gunner off his perch on the far reception desk.

Vern moved right, clearing a path for Brakarr to storm in on his heels. Brakarr filled the centre of the room; chopping targets off their feet. He was Grineer, built for war. The shrill keen of the rotary cannon split the air once more. Energy bolts and cutting beams singe him, but the Grineer's throaty laugh filled the chamber as he responded in ruthless kind.

More agents rushed them. Vern shrank back behind a pillar; felt it vibrate under a fusillade of beam fire. Felt the heat and smelt the scalded plaster. You didn't take chances in a beam fight: it was all too easy a way to get cross-sectioned.

A shape darted by. Isolde was on them in a flash. Then came the sound of bones breaking; of strangled chokes and shrieks. The Tenno carried no weapons beyond the single kunai. It flashed; arcing great splashes of blood as it punctured throats and severed arteries. Bodies fell left and right; beam weapons clattering to the floor, useless.

Vern already knew the outcome.

But they were short on time.

Vern swept into the savage melee; a throat punch opening his assault. Much like the Tenno, the veteran hunter fought with tremendous economy. No movement was wasted. Hard strikes: elbows, knees; punctuated by decisive barks of the Lex at point blank range. A brutal dance; he flowed through them; a choreographed rampage born from a lifetime of combat experience. Every kill punctuated with a confirmation trio: two to the chest; one to the head.

The last man to rush him had a knife. Vern took it in the forearm, grunting as the blade met the metal beneath his sleeve. Arresting it. The Lex snarled twice more. The agent folded, clutching his belly. A final bullet ended the conversation.

Vern looked around. The lobby was a smoking mess, choked with fallen Exchange personnel. Brakarr strode through the devastation, panning for additional targets. Parson-Luk was already looting the dead; pocketing any ammo, trinkets or keepsakes he could flog.

Isolde stood apart, unscathed bar for a small droplet of blood splashed across her ivory cheek. Vern approached, wiped it away with his thumb. The girl seemed in shock. Not at the violence; but the sudden and irreversible change in their circumstances.

They were fugitives now. Wanted by one of the single most ruthless organisations in the System.

She noticed the knife still-lodged in Vern's arm immediately, blinked in concern; focused now.

"Servos took it." Vern grunted, as he pulled the blade free and cast it aside.

"You're insane." Isolde scolded, raising her voice to address the others. "You're _all_ insane."

"Better than dead, Surah." Parson-Luk shrugged. He was actively trying to pry a golden tooth from one of the bodies. There was good money in teeth. "Or worse: _bored_."

"We take care of our own." Vern insisted.

Brakarr simply thumped his breastplate with a clanging fist.

"Drask won't take this lying down." Vern said. "Time to go."

"Not quite." Isolde shook her head. "We forgot something."

* * *

Neera sat clamped in the scanning chair, trembling.

The clerk seated on the far side of the chamber seemed oblivious to the bleating alarms and rattling gunfire that echoed throughout the corridors beyond. Instead she calmly worked her way through the questionnaire. The clerk was shorn of hair, her face stencilled in Corpus script. Her hands were cybernetic; and whirred as they danced over the keypad; tapping in each and every detail of Neera Hosk's relatively short and unhappy life.

Occupational Assessment, as it was known. Neera knew what it really was. She spied her reflection in the chrome manacles that bound her to the chair; suddenly became all too aware of her skin, her nails, her eyes and lips. Her hands began to shake even more.

"Can you confirm your skills and existing occupation?"

"H-hospitality. C-3 Licence. Lower Tier."

The clerk ticked a box on her data pad. In the distance, another explosion rumbled.

"Any existing trades or experience handling manual equipment?"

Neera quaked in terror by this point. She just shook her head.

Another tick on the checklist.

"Any existing medical conditions, or historical rejection of prothesis?"

Neera never got a chance to answer. The door blasted off its hinges. Neera was blinded by the settling wall of swirling dust; coughing. A giant Grineer strode in, sweeping the room with a truly staggeringly large cannon. The clerk rose to her feet, protesting the intrusion; wholly ignorant of the very real and present danger before her. Alarms wailed in the distance. Neera could smell smoke and fire.

Isolde swept in past the giant, her face a mask of ruthless fury. She impatiently rose a hand. The air seemed to swell and pop.

The clerk hit the far wall with a meaty smack, unconscious.

Isolde raised a hand and a jolt of arcane energy spat out, shorting the locks that bound Neera's wrists. They sprang open with a clack.

The rogue Tenno looked at Neera.

"You. You're with us now."

* * *

Mirage's form seemed to sift and flow through the shadows; alternating light and dark as Sara urged the Solaris fighters forward. The Corpus had broken. Now was their chance to push the attack.

A voice buzzed in her ear.

"Sara, tell me that's not your Frame I'm seeing on the feed."

"Uh no. Not me. Pure coincidence."

"You said quiet retrieval. In and out. Now you're leading a revolution."

"I'm not _leading_ it. I'm _participating_."

"The Tenno is with us!" one worker yelled excitedly. "Follow the Tenno!"

A resounding cheer went up throughout the line. Mirage shrugged, and pointed onwards, prompting another roar of approval. The Resistance flooded in around her, pressing the assault.

Sara cut the com line, bright voice angelic.

"Catch you later!"


	26. Chapter 26

" _Some call the Corpus Trade Guilds; others, a Merchant Cult. The truth is somewhat more muddied. They are not as unified as they seem, for one. There are rivalries, internecine conflicts that can oft-break out into trade warfare in a very literal sense. These fissures run the length and breath of the Corpus Empire: from the highest Board member to the lowest subcontractor._

 _Exploit them to your advantage._

 _Ignore them at your peril."_

 _-_ Tenno Doric, ruminations on Corpus politics

* * *

Kahrl Bravic sweated. The chaos of the battle had thrown the _Severance_ off course.

Now they drifted over the battle engulfing the stretches of the city immediately beyond the landing pads. First class seats to the impending destruction of the Upper Tier.

The battle spread like wildfire; spilling through abandoned cafes and fine restaurants; through wide boulevards and plush galleries; even shrines erected by wealthy patrons hoping to curry favour with the Prophet himself.

Between frenzied firefights and brutal hand to hand clashes, Solaris sympathisers stopped and gawked at the sheer ostentation displayed throughout the Upper Tier. The degree of space set aside for their supposed betters proved more bewildering than any skirmish.

Above, Bravic could see the flitting bursts of plasma fire between the lines, as the Solaris rebels pushed the City Watch further and further back into the city. It was a question of hunger as much as anything else. The rebels had committed to the assault with singular purpose. To fail here was to die, or worse: a lifetime of the very servitude they sought to end.

The crewmen by contrast were either purpose-bred gene-stock or indentured servants: disciplined, certainly, but lacking the fire and urgency of their opponents. The mind-wiped infantry lacked initiative, and this lack of creativity materially showed in the degree of territory ceded to the rebels, as hole after hole was picked in the Corpus line, and exploited with ruthless speed.

By now the rebel flyers had disengaged; discouraged by the _Severance's_ dogged resistance. Now they kept their distance, strafing City Watch lines and pounding the inert anti-air batteries into scrap metal.

This made a welcome change. The _Severance_ had been sorely tested. Twice the shields had failed outright; and it was only through sheer happenstance that it had been spared an even greater beating. Even with its layers of armoured plating, Bravic had no intention of exposing his ship further. Not with his prize still on board.

Now they drifted over Watch Control itself, far from the frontline; as the _Severance_ licked its wounds: the crew noisily patching the various holes that had been ripped through the platework; soldering severed wires and coaxing emergency systems back to life. The _Severance_ slowly began to heal.

Bravic marvelled at the view, letting his crew get on with it. Ordinarily, a contractor like him would never be allowed to fly this close to such a key facility.

Up close, the ziggurat presented a grim, foreboding structure: a long flight of steps from the open plaza led up to where the boardroom sat at its summit; a glass two storey tower with a full panoramic view of the city around it; almost shrine-like in its placement. Bravic could see the crewmen manning the palisades; establishing mortars and fixed emplacements, should the unthinkable happen and the rebels manage to test the ziggurat itself.

The place was a fortress, and rightly so: Watch Control was the cold intelligence controlling Prospect 141; the summit of Corpus influence and power. Contained inside its armoured walls was every major system required to ensure the Board's dominance of the colony: the reserve servers for the drone manufactories; the orbital defences and environmental controls that kept the very city and its environs habitable. It was no small wonder the Solaris were hell-bent on taking it.

It was a giddy prospect. He who controlled the ziggurat, controlled the colony.

Bravic was still marvelling at the view when he heard a dry click behind him. The entire bridge wheeled about in their chairs.

"Nobody move!" Telin warned, a gun pressed to his hostage's head.

Kelpo stood beside him, a crude flamethrower in his hands; the pilot light shimmering from the rattling-hum of the pulse drives. The two scavengers had evidently raided the armoury. They were festooned with ammo belts, looted surplus gear and more bandoliers and pouches than any one person should conceivably carry. Bravic smirked.

It took Bravic a moment to remember quite who the hostage was. When he did, his smirk widened to an outright grin.

"You again." Bravic rose to his feet. Telin readjusted the grip on his pistol, pressing it tighter against Spendric's head. The pistol rattled audibly, such was the shake of Telin's hand.

Captain Bravic heaved a sigh. He reached back and keyed a button on the side of his command throne, broadcasting the conversation wideband throughout his fleet. It would be good for morale, if nothing else.

"Okay. So what's supposed to happen here?" Bravic asked, turning back to face his would be hijackers, eyebrow raised.

"We're taking this ship."

"Are you now?" Bravic folded his arms, bemused by the whole scenario. "Because I'm not convinced."

Scattered chuckles broke out amongst the crew. Bravic continued, slowly pacing. His head nearly brushed the ceiling, such was his height.

"Because if you were _serious_ about taking this ship, you would know that every single one of us is armed. That, even if you did kill _me_ ; our being here is solely on account of the agreement I _personally_ hold with the very man in charge of that fortress. Something happens to me? Corpus control blows you out of the sky.

Bravic then pointed out the port window. Two barges of a muscled pattern similar to the _Severance_ were visible on the horizon, inbound to their position with all speed; drives flaring.

"See those two barges? My _other_ crews. The long one is _Forward Transaction_ , the sister ship to this barge. The stubbier one is the _Short Position_. See the cannon to the stern? That's a Graviton Three Decimator. I'm not even sure what it does; I just know it cost more credits than _you've_ ever seen in your miserable scavver life. But go ahead, _take_ the ship. Give the city a live demonstration."

Telin shifted on his feet, doing his best not to panic. Kelpo for his part debated torching the captain there and then. Anything to shut him up.

Bravic wasn't finished.

"But your experience isn't even the most insulting part of your sorry plan." Bravic was playing to the gallery now. "It's that of _all_ the key personnel you could have taken, you chose _him_ …"

Bravic pointed at Spendric. His men were roaring with laughter now.

"… our onboard _sanitation_ _expert_ , as your leverage."

Spendric shook with umbrage as the majority of the bridge crew drew weapons, cackling all the while.

Bravic wiped a tear from his eye, still laughing. He shook his head.

"Y'know, Telin Voss, with all the credits you cost me, I was planning on selling you. Good return on wetware these days. Might even get a lease agreement with Fortuna directly. But I haven't had a laugh like this in years. So we'll settle on just killing you."

Bravic's bridge opened fire as one. A roar of gunfire that by rights should have painted Telin, Kelpo and the hapless Spendric across the deck. They flinched.

Nothing happened.

A shape had descended from the ducts above. The air shimmered between it and the crew.

The shape rose to its feet. The golem; angular lines and slender metal. Twinned horns jutting out over an arched, sloping visage. A deep blue cloak, and curved shoulder pauldrons decorated with Orokin script; white on black.

The air before it shimmered; crackling with electricity.

The laughter stopped.

Bravic didn't hesitate. His Grakata were up in seconds; shredding the air. The fizzling shield absorbed it all. The Grakata snapped empty; scattered shell casings steaming across the deck.

The Warframe cocked its head to one side, as if amused.

Then Bravic was lifted clean from the ground; throat all but swallowed by the metal warrior's elongated hands. The bridge crew were on their feet now, weapons pointed at the Warframe from all directions. It noticed the green broadcast light on the command throne.

A voice emerged in the air around it; tinged with a metallic rasping echo.

"You're broadcasting live; all channels? Good."

Telin recognised the boy's voice immediately. Bravic just kicked and spluttered, turning blue. With frenzied fists and desperate feet he thumped at the Warframe, again and again. Until his fists bled. He may as well have been hitting a statue. The boy's voice was icy calm, detached.

"Whether you live or die depends entirely on you, Captain Bravic. Make no mistake: I _am_ taking control of this vessel. Any further harm to my companions will be revisited in kind. Do you understand."

"Void Freak!" Bravic managed to croak; spittle flying from bulging lips.

"Evidently not." The Warframe shrugged. A surge of lightning coursed through Bravic. He shrieked; an animalistic sound so loud and piercing it seemed scarcely human.

Then the Frame applied the slightest degree of pressure.

The shrieking ceased with a single hollow snap; that echoed across the bridge of every ship in Bravic's fleet.

The Warframe dropped the corpse to the deck with a resounding clang. It looked around.

"Anyone else?"

There was a resounding clatter of guns being cast aside. A sea of hands filled the air.

The Warframe nodded once, satisfied.

Then it looked over at Telin. The scavenger felt three centimetres tall all of a sudden.

The boy spoke with a ruthless confidence far removed from the lost child they found buried beneath the ice.

"You were wrong about me, Telin Voss. I am not a kid, nor am I _salvage_ , to be bartered."

Volt Prime took a seat in the command throne of the _Severance Package_ , Bravic's smoking corpse still twitching at his feet.

It turned in the revolving chair, looking out over the burning city beyond.

"I am Tenno. And my name is Kael."


	27. Chapter 27

_"This; the song of sons and daughters_

 _Hide; the heart of who we are_

 _Making peace to build a future_

 _Strong, united, working 'til we fall."_

\- Solaris work song, unattributed

* * *

Kael watched the two distant barges approaching at speed.

"Who's in charge of communications here?" The Tenno asked.

For a moment nobody responded, entirely too terrified to move.

"Uh… me." Teico eventually raised a hesitant hand. "Teico Mand; Communications officer."

Kael-as-Volt nodded.

"Open a channel, Teico."

Teico responded promptly. The com-light pinged green on the edge of the command throne once more. He flashed a thumbs up.

Kael began, solemn voice stern:

"To the crews of the _Short Position_ and _Forward Transaction_ , consider this your first and final warning. Cease your pursuit. Cut your losses, leave this place. The only alternative is death."

Kael killed the transmission. He watched the monitor carefully.

Both ships continued inbound, unmoved by his words.

"Very well." The Frame offered the slightest shrug. "Helm, bring us about. Intercept course."

The helmsman, Pohld, spluttered in protest.

"That's suicide." he balked. "It's two against one!"

Volt cocked his head to one side.

"You doubt the capabilities of this ship?"

Pohld felt the glare from the rest of the bridge crew. He held his hands up defensively.

"Look, we can mix it up with the best of 'em. Don't get me wrong. Have done before, will do again. But our shields took a pounding. Cells are cooked. On a good day, we might have a shot. But now?"

Pohld let the question hang. The Tenno studied him.

"What's your name?" Kael asked.

"Enric Pohld, Tenno; so it please you." Pohld sweated.

"And the rest of you, you agree with Mr. Pohld's assessment?"

A chorus of nods slowly took hold. The Tenno took it in, slowly nodding.

Kael came to a decision.

"I am versed in matters of war. Have faith, Pohld. Bring the ship about. I need a volunteer to show me to engineering."

Spendric raised a hand. He was a squat fellow, greasy and sweating. Long oppressed, he seemed morbidly delighted to see Bravic's corpse still smouldering on the deck.

Volt rose to his feet.

"Telin, you have command. Kelpo: someone tries anything, burn them."

"Why am I in charge?" Telin hissed privately.

Kael kept his voice low.

"Because you are appallingly self-interested, Telin Voss, but dependably so. Keep this ship alive. Keep this crew alive."

Kael raised his voice. "If anyone so much as touches my companions, know that I will hold each of you collectively responsible. Good luck."

On that optimistic note, Volt swept from the bridge, the diminutive Spendric in tow.

Telin took a seat in the command chair. All eyes were on him now.

"Well, you heard the Tenno. Bring us about. Ready weapon systems. And get that damned carcass off my bridge."

The crew shook their heads in disbelief, but begrudgingly did as instructed. There was a change in pitch as the engines shifted. Slowly, the _Severance_ began to turn. Two of the crew dragged the remains of Kahrl Bravic from the bridge, grimacing from the stench.

Telin looked around at Kelpo, flashing his eyebrows and grinning.

"See? All according to plan."

* * *

"Drone control back online." reported a staffer.

A sigh of relief broke out throughout the Boardroom.

"Manufactories?" Kren Maruk pressed.

"Pending. ETA ten minutes."

"Shorten it to five, or it comes out of your bonus."

Kren crossed the room to where Kef Mehrino stood apart, arms folded.

"Problem, Director?"

The senior trader's fleshy eyes were suspicious slits; locked on the _Severance Package_ as it wheeled about, angling back toward the two incoming barges intended to reinforce their delivery. It defied all logic or reason, but it looked like an intercept pattern.

"I can't get Bravic on the line." Mehrino mused, before turning to Kren Maruk. "So I took the liberty of contacting the Exchange off-world brokerage directly."

Kef Mehrino turned to Kren Maruk, expression severe.

"Ready an intercept team. We can't take any chances. That delivery means _everything_."

* * *

On the ground, the return of Corpus proxies radically changed the fortunes of the Solaris fighters on the ground.

The fight shifted from an even, albeit-determined infantry battle to an ever-building tide of incoming drones. Aerial units, two-legged Mobile Offensive Armatures, they came in all manner of shapes and sizes. The resistance advance slowed to a crawl.

One sided scarcely covered it. Solaris insurgents cried out warnings as tides of Moa began bursting out across the concourse, emitters spitting. The faces of the mechanised rebels flashed cries of alarm moments before they were cut down.

"Stay in cover!" Vanger Hosk bellowed, ducking back as a brace of shots peppered the doorway he hid behind. The storm of incoming fire was numbing in its intensity.

Hosk swore vehemently. They had been so close!

Even Sara, over-extended at the very tip of the Solaris spear, found herself hard pressed. Proxies mobbed Mirage on all sides. Soon she found herself alone, in the open plaza just before Watch Control.

One Furis clacked empty. She hurled it at an incoming Moa, then dumped the remains of her last machine pistol into the next. Her blade-whip was in her hand now; voiding warranties with blinding speed and savage strokes.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

This was how the Corpus maintained their empire. Their drones were cost-effective; often cheaply designed with disposable intent. But they had numbers.

Mirage backflipped to avoid a lancing rail shot at the last second. She threw herself forward into a tumbling roll, which brought her safely behind a pock-marked plinth that carried a bust of Nef Anyo. The Moa targeting systems held little sentiment for piety. The bust quickly became unrecognisable, steaming heap of slag.

Sara was about to call for support when backup seemingly arrived all of its own accord.

A rotary cannon split the air.

Moa went down in droves. Sparks flew.

Sara had trained with nearly every conceivable weapon there was to use in the Origin System. Bows, spears, plasma cannons; even Ostron slingshots and fishing spears. She knew them all.

The sounds she heard made no sense, here on Venus.

A Lex, barking sharp cracks; tightly disciplined. The bolt-snap return of a Grinlock rifle. That damned cannon; shrill and howling. A Grineer weapon; too large to be carried by her fellow insurgents. None of those noises bothered her though. Not in the same way as the next thing she heard.

The swirling fury of Void unleashed; of reality tearing itself apart.

Moa shrilled as they were consumed by scalding power.

By the time Mirage's head poked back above the parapet, the wave of drones had been scattered in component pieces across the plaza. Some had been scorched clean into the pavement; rendered little more than ashen smears. The only Moa still standing nursed a hole in its head; doomed to walk in an endless circle, over and over, before eventually tottering over and giving out with a final flit of sparks.

Her mysterious benefactors were already gone.

"No way…" Sara breathed.

Solaris workers charged by, toting rifles and shouting renewed encouragement; dragging the wounded to safety. The advance resumed.

Mirage stood there, Sara's amazement riveting the Frame in place.

"Something the matter?" Hosk appeared at her side.

Mirage shook her head. Sara's voice didn't sound at all convinced.

"N-nothing."

Hosk offered her a heavy revolver. It was a Kitgun; a kit-bashed cobble of parts; rendered into a fearsome improvised sidearm.

"Time is short. We need to move, Tenno."

Mirage nodded, numbly taking the revolver. Sara shook herself.

There was a battle to win.

* * *

Neera followed the Grinner's mighty shoulders as they moved down the alley. She was toying with an earpiece she looted from one of the Exchange Agents. Her father had taught her a few tricks, before the Corpus took him. Back when her uncle was still welcome at the bar, and her mother had been alive and so full of warmth. She fiddled with the criss-crossing wires, trying to reprogram the signal. It was difficult to do on the move.

Isolde kept stealing conflicted glances back over her shoulder.

Only Vern noticed. They were in field. This wasn't like her.

He shot her a reproachful look.

"Eyes up, Isolde."

Isolde snapped out of her distraction, eyes wide.

"They're here."

"The Tenno? I saw."

Isolde stopped in her tracks.

"Not just any Tenno, Terrenus. My _Cell_ is here."

The train of rogue bounty hunters slowly came to a halt, turning back to look at her.

Vern placed a kind hand on her shoulder.

"Look around, girl. This won't end well. We can't be here when it does."

Isolde grimaced, then eventually nodded. They continued moving.

High above, Eythan watched them; one hand on his golden nikana.

* * *

"Targets closing." Teico reported. "Twenty minutes out."

The _Severance Package_ bounded ahead at full speed; weapon systems tracking to bear on the _Forward Transaction_ and the _Short Position_. They returned the favour, turrets whirring about. Barge engagements were short-ranged, brutal affairs. To outright demolish an enemy ship was to risk destroying precious cargo. Salvage was king. This meant boarding parties and savage hand to hand combat.

A tension hung in the air. Weapons crews loaded harpoons and sweated over cranks, as they furiously winched the crude launchers to bear. Others readied the altogether more elegant Corpus innovations; hauling in fresh power cells and readying emergency plasma tethers; EMP cannons and rail launchers. This was a frontier fight, only this time there was no frontier. The entire Upper Tier watched the looming confrontation.

To those on the ground, it was difficult to decide whether the _Severance's_ bull-charge was madness or bravery. The _Severance_ presented the most muscular of the three ships, yes, but had only a fraction of the shields; had been visibly bruised and battered by the insurgency's ramshackle air corps. Its hull was dented and warped, even from a distance.

Their opponents by contrast were fighting fresh; fully loaded. Experienced crews. Crews whom the _Severance's_ crew had themselves fought alongside; had bled and drank with.

No longer. With Bravic gone the ties that bound were severed, replaced by an altogether more Corpus desire for ruthless profit. A Tenno was on board. A Tenno worth a lot of credits.

Their new ownership soon became clear; marked by the registration sigils on the radar display: a platinum coin, encircled by a coiled serpent.

Telin recognised it immediately, and it chilled him to the core.

The Exchange.

Telin took a deep breath.

This brawl could become the stuff of scavver legend. The _Severance Package,_ helmed by an inexperienced, rogue captain; defying all odds.

Or a fiery mess that flattened half the city.

Still, Telin had to start somewhere. He tried addressing the crew.

"So look, I know we didn't get off to a good start."

Kelpo winced. That was an understatement. The smell of fried Bravic stilled filled the air like sour bacon. The entire crew stared at him. Telin cleared his throat.

"But we're in this fight now. And we can win it. The kid thinks so, and I'm not inclined to argue."

"What kid?" frowned one crewman from the weapons station. He was a tattooed fellow; bushy-bearded, with arms like hams.

"The… erm…" Telin fumbled for the most adequate word. "…Tenno. It's the kid you, well, kidnapped."

"It's _what?_ " Teico gaped.

"It's a bloody psycho is what it is." The burly crewman huffed, folding his arms. A rumble of assent rippled throughout the bridge.

"Shut it, Stren," Pohld the helmsman interjected, blowing up the holo-display for all to see. "See those signatures?"

Stren went pale.

"Exactly. _Exchange_ ships, _under contract_." Pohld stress the words, then nodded to Telin. "Now, you were saying mate."

"I'm saying the Tenno thinks we can win this fight. But this is your ship, not mine. You know how it works, how it fights."

Stren threw his hands up in the air.

"We've no Captain! Your Tenno bloody went and torched him!"

"And who says he didn't have it coming?" That was Teico. "How many crews we scrapped over the years, eh? How many people we sold?"

A silence fell. Teico pressed again, voice small but clear in the open bridge.

"I'm just sayin' he might have had it comin', is all. Even these two. They had salvage rights. Good claim too. Processed the order myself. Bravic stopped me. Said it went no further than us. As he always did."

"He was making us Profit." A crewman growled. One or two grunted in agreement.

"And what if it was us that made that claim, eh? What then?"

They had no answer to that.

To Telin's surprise, Kelpo filled the gap.

"It's irrelevant." Kelpo said, stepping forward. "Profit, blame; who's right or wrong. It doesn't matter."

Kelpo pointed out the window.

"They're coming, one way or another. We know how it works."

"Us or them." Stren growled.

"Us or them." Kelpo nodded gravely. "Now... you gonna let it be them?"

A growled-murmur of united defiance went around the bridge. Even without the flamethrower in his hands, there was something about Kelpo's ruined face that spoke to them. The scavvers had seen the frontier, had lived its brutality, just like them.

That earned them a modicum of respect, even amongst a crew as hardened as the _Severance_.

The two hostile barges drifted ever closer.

"So how do we win?" Telin asked aloud.

The bridge crew exchanged glances. Stren was the first to speak.

" _Forward Transaction's_ got the tonnage, but the _Position's_ the real threat." Stren scratched at his jowls with stubby fingers, as he pointed at the smaller of the two ships.

"They won't risk the Gravitron, not over the city, but it's still got heavier ordnance; thicker plating. Helped rigged it me-self."

One by one they interjected, an uneasy democracy; underpinned by decades of combined experience. Anecdotes and rumours, mixed with observations and suggestions. Old stories about a frontier fight here, a replaced hull section or stressed sensor module there. Notes were taken. A hasty plan began to form.

All the while, the barges raced ever closer, rumbling towards a showdown over the burning city.


	28. Chapter 28

" _So you wanna know about Barge Brawls, eh? Nasty business._

 _Concept's simple, sure. Sounds clean on paper. Drop shields, pacify defences; neutralise crew._

 _Get cargo. Get paid. But the doin'?_

 _Well, that's where it gets messy."_

\- Olan Stren, on frontier skirmishes

* * *

The airships steamed toward each other, the gap between ever dwindling.

Compared with its sister ship, the bridge of the _Forward Transaction_ was an altogether more Corpus affair. Good clean lines; the epitome of order. They had served under Bravic's instruction, had done so with distinction, but Captain Leonid Sobil ran a tight ship, comparatively free of the mongrel perversions Bravic so often enjoyed.

Sobil was a tall man; reed thin with a pencil moustache; and a practiced patience that served him well on the frontier. He preferred cold logic to impetuous risk. There was a pattern to barge fighting. A rigorous rulebook to be studied and employed. He knew it well.

"Repeat our warning. They are to stand down, power down their weapons and submit their cargo for processing without further complaint."

His coms officer did so. Then he looked up; met Sobil's eye, shaking his head.

"Sir, no response."

Sobil nodded coolly, voice dispassionate as he settled back in his chair.

He licked his lips, his voice clear and smooth as he gave the order.

"Ready weapons. Prepare to fire."

* * *

Aboard the _Severance,_ Engineering was a chaotic mess of snaking tubes and spilling cable; dominated by a single power core that formed the centrepiece of the sweltering chamber. The crew here sweated visibly from the residual heat; dressed in grease stained overalls and tattered vests mired with grease.

Despite their rowdy appearance, these were technically minded people; well versed in the hybrid Corpus-Grineer tech that had been cannibalised, repurposed and meshed together over the _Severance's_ long service life.

Kael followed Spendric as he showed him around. For all his diminutive stature and timidity, the sanitation tech knew more about the ship than one would assume at first glance. Kael understood all too well: the man was at the very lowest tier of the crew's hierarchy. He got to see how it all functioned, from the bottom up.

The Tenno listened to Spendric closely; asking the occasional question or pressing on a technical detail.

"Shield genny is the main issue." Spendric was saying, indicating the cylindrical column mounted just beside the central core.

"He's not wrong." said an approaching tech; wiping her hands with a do-rag as she stepped forward, pointing. She was a muscular woman; with shoulders that put most of the crew to shame. She seemed more fascinated by the Warframe; coveting it as a child might an expensive toy.

"Lorna. Chief Engineer." She offered a hand.

The Warframe's hand enveloped it.

"Kael."

Lorna walked them through it, circling the core and pointing out structural stresses and venting pipes here and there.

"System went down one time too many. Got her back workin' now, but can't get past thirty percent capacity. Fusion rods are blown. Gonna need a full refit."

Kael-as-Volt nodded, looking at the shield core in particular.

"Show me."

"Gear up! Masks on!" Lorna barked. A klaxon sounded.

Overalls were zipped up. Hoods were thrown up; sealed with environment masks. Spendric for his part stood and gawked, until Lorna snarled and pushed a spare set into his hands. She saw the look the Tenno's Warframe gave her.

"What?" she replied with a shrug, voice tinny behind her shielding mask. "Health and Safety, innit?"

The core's shielding rose up, exposing a wild combination of Corpus and Grineer fuel rods. Most of them were blown; rendered little more than blackened slag. They could hear the frustrated sigh behind Lorna's mask.

"So yeah, there it is. Unless you got a spare genny in your cloak, she's not doing more than she is."

Volt said nothing, studying the shield core with great interest.

"Everybody out."

* * *

"Sixty seconds!" Teico announced, voice tight.

"Shields forward." Telin ordered, the calmness of his voice entirely at odds with the electric tension running up his spine. "Ready weapons."

"Weapons primed!" Stren crowed.

"A count down timer, please." Telin asked. Teico obliged, projecting it in the air above his station with a tap of his finger. The estimates were devised by the crew during their heated planning session. They would live or die based on their accuracy.

Pohld sweated at the helm; nursing the ship through one micro-correction after another. Telin sat forward in the command throne, fingers steepled; tapping his nose nervously. His stomach churned like a squirm of eels as the two barges grew large in the monitor; every bit as monstrous and scabbed as the _Severance._

This was it. Pohld looked at Telin, expectantly.

Telin Voss' hands stopped fidgeting; became utterly still.

The scavenger's eyes narrowed.

"Now."

* * *

In engineering, safely hidden behind blast screens, Spendric and Lorna watched as the Tenno stepped toward the core. The entire engineering team held their breath; fascinated.

Volt placed a hand in two recesses within the shield core. Steadied himself.

There was a blinding flash. The Tenno's cloak rippled and snapped as a tremendous wave of power ripped forth from the Frame itself; arcing across its skin and surging through the core. It was so blinding they had to look away.

In the core, Kael roared; unleashing the howling fury of the Void itself.

* * *

"Sir, they're accelerating."

Captain Sobil stood up from his chair, his face a mask of confusion. The _Severance_ was bruised, outnumbered; sorely outgunned. This defied all common sense, all logical reason. Every rule he ever studied steadily began to unravel.

His helmsman, twisted about in his chair; panicking.

"Intercept course! They mean to ram us!"

Sobil mashed his fist down.

"Open fire! _Open fire damn you!"_

* * *

The _Severance Package_ surged forward; full burn.

The opening salvos lanced in like a hail storm; a blistering array of bolts flashing out from the _Forward Transaction_ and the _Short Position_ ; primarily plasma fire, interspersed with the heavier tracer fire of repurposed Grineer cannon. They splashed across the front of the _Severance_ ; sparking and bursting across the bow; mere inches from the hull. The viewport ahead automatically dimmed, such was the startling intensity of the fusillade.

The _Severance_ held fire; all power to engines.

Its shields held; frazzling, flashing; thoroughly abused, but holding. Teico watched his instrumentation in amazement. Privately, he wondered if it was a technical fault.

Even diverted fully in a single direction, the shields should have given out by now.

Instead they surged. Power levels hit maximum thresholds… and then exceeded them. Incoming fire washed over them like water. The _Severance_ charged forward, heedless of the fury being thrown at it.

Telin's eyes never left the _Forward Transaction._

"Make ready, Pohld."

Pohld gripped his hand on the throttle, taking a deep breath.

"All hands! _Brace!_ "

* * *

The _Severance_ screamed toward its opponents; shields alight.

A hellish sight, it filled the viewport of the _Forward Transaction._ Impervious, invulnerable; a frenzied bull, set ablaze and charging straight for them.

"They're not stopping!" shrilled the helmsman.

"Madmen!" Captain Sobil swore; panic rising as he all but spat "Break; break damn you! _Move!_ "

* * *

Pohld watched the hostile barge begin to shift; his grin all but a grimace as the seconds on the timer hit zero.

"Now!" Telin roared.

Pohld wrenched the throttle back; hauling on a separate lever with his other hand.

The engines cut out. The ship lurched; propelled in a slewing side-spin as emergency propulsion jets flared with a frenzied hiss. The _Severance_ missed the _Transaction_ by merest inches as it swung below; turning on its axis. Presenting the full compliment of its starboard ordnance.

"Now Stren!" Telin yelled. "Fire!"

The starboard batteries opened up. A single salvo; a savage hammer blow of rail shot, plasma batteries and anti-material cannon. Everything they had; point blank. It hit the _Transaction's_ shields with a resounding slap that issued like a thunderclap across the colony.

Nose to nose with an incoming ship, The _Transaction's_ shields had been logically shifted to cover their bow. The side shields were comparatively weakened; had not been anticipating the extreme angle of the attack, nor the proximity.

They collapsed in an instant.

Ordinarily in a barge-fight, there is a reticence to go full tilt on an enemy barge. To do so meant risking precious cargo. The _Severance_ had no such limitations here.

The flak cannons and Vruush turrets lining the _Severance's_ spine cycled to life with a keening whine; tendrils of fire blazing forth from their barrels. Hull plating ripped apart in a deluge of shrapnel as hard rounds chewed deep into the _Transaction's_ tender flank.

The _Transaction's_ crew were no rank amateurs. Sobil did the only thing he could. He swung his ship about, absorbing the deluge on the sturdier plating around the _Transaction's_ armoured prow. This threw the _Transaction_ out of formation entirely.

And entirely blocked the _Short Position_ from an effective firing solution.

"Phase two, go." Telin nodded, watching as the two enemy barges drifted into view before them. They were beneath them now.

Pohld flared the drives to life once more. The _Severance_ came about, angling up between the two hostile barges; pushing between them. Batteries on both sides flared to life; weapons free; raking their opponents with wild abandon. The return fire was hesitant, sporadic; the two barges were at risk of hitting one another. The _Severance_ blazed away, free of such concerns.

The ships flanking them began to close the gap; to try and grant their crews an easier mark. They hemmed the _Severance_ in; crowding the viewports on either side.

Something hit the _Severance._ Hard. The bridge crew cried out in alarm as they were thrown from their chairs. The entire bridge shook; lost power for the most heart stopping of moments. A pipe burst, venting boiling steam. Somebody shrieked.

"What the hell was that?!" Telin gasped, clawing his way back into his chair.

"Gravitron hit!" Teico reported. "Shields down!"

"We're still here!" Telin panted.

"Just about!"

The _Short Position_ , as impetuous as its larger cousin, had thrown caution to the wind; dumping an energy slug into the _Severance_ at a range far below the accepted minimum safe distance. Those on the ground watching the brawl were all but blinded outright. The resulting EMP managed to kill several aerial drones across the city. Several Solaris workers fell over, choking and gasping until their prosthetics surged back life, and they were pulled to safety by their wholly organic comrades.

To those aboard the _Severance_ , they were picked up and thrown about like rag dolls.

Even Kael, still linked to the shield core, was blown clean across the room; his Frame's shields failing as he slammed against the far wall; denting it.

All three barges lost shield power, such was the fallout.

This meant only one thing. The fight was about to move to its second, bloodier phase.

Stren pushed himself to his feet; marching towards the exit. Kelpo intercepted him.

"Where're you going?" Kelpo asked.

Stren's eyes were frenzied; pumped with adrenaline.

"Boarding deck. Not much else I can do here. We're in a pit fight now son."

Stren noticed the flamethrower in Kelpo's hands. He slapped Kelpo on the shoulder with a meaty hand.

"Bring that with you. It's about to get real ugly."

* * *

Javelins and spear launchers lined the Boarding Deck. Large Grineer Basilisk-Pattern Harpak Launchers; intended for ship to ship combat, and smaller Gravity Tethers; electronic darts that resembled silvered missiles. Loading crews sweated as they furiously prepped weapons; bundling spare javelins up the loading bay; banging down boxes of spare ammo with resounding clangs that reverberated throughout the hold.

Stren marched onto scene; barking orders the moment he arrived. He had a crude eye-scope in his hands. A polished, ornamental thing; it was difficult to tell whether it was a Grineer device gilded with Corpus tech, or the other way round.

There were no less than fifteen firing systems on the starboard side; each with their own peculiarities and particular kinks. He knew each of them like the back of his hand.

If there was one thing Olan Stren knew, it was Barge Brawling.

"Come on you dogs: ready spears! Move your arses!"

There was a scramble as men slammed harpoons into launchers; wheeled antique cranks; pre-sighting on predetermined weak-points along the _Forward_ _Transaction_ 's port side _._ Rail launchers were locked and loaded; magnets humming as their operators knelt at their stations, awaiting the order. Sights were checked and rechecked.

Kelpo watched it all unfold in amazement. The crew were brawny killers; savages far more ruthless than a humble junk-scavver like him. Yet he watched them perform like a military unit; tightly drilled, disciplined. This was the fight of their lives. They would not be found wanting.

The scope was to Stren's eye now. The tendons in his neck bulged as he barked instructions.

"Elevation Sixty-Six. Range 350. Adjust and confirm!"

"350 aye!" came the echoing return.

"Steady lads. Hold." Stren crowed, watching. Waiting. "Hold!"

The enemy hull swam up before them. Nobody dared breath.

"Release!" Stren roared.

There was a series of resounding bangs as the Harpaks launched in unison.

Three of them struck true and clear; blasting through deck plating and snapping taut. The fourth and fifth failed to connect; one deflecting from a section of reinforced hull and spinning away; another ripping clean through, but failing to find purchase as it ripped its way back out again, spilling men screaming in its wake.

Stren swore.

"Again! Line and sight! Line and sight!"

Another resounding clang as more harpoons whickered out; slamming home. Stren nodded.

Better, much better.

"Status!" he bellowed.

"Line secure!" the bow teams shouted.

"Line secure!" echoed the men in the mid-section and stern.

Stren nodded, then roared.

"Winch! Bring 'er in boys!"

The motorised winches whirred to life; a metallic, churning clanking sound. The hull groaned under the strain.

"Gravity tethers!" Stren ordered next.

The Corpus tethers were auto-sighted. They spat out; slicing into the hull of the _Forward Transaction_ with metallic smacks. Energy projectors thrummed to life; pulling the enemy barge ever closer. There was a pulse from the enemy ship. Localised EMP-shocks. The tethers failed; fizzling out. Stren shrugged.

A one-use defence; predictable. Repeated shocks risked damaging internal ship systems beyond repair.

"Again! Hit 'em again!"

More tethers slapped out. Twice as many this time. They festooned the enemy hull; a wall of searing white energy springing to life. The men cheered as the _Transaction_ began to list ever so slightly; all but overwhelmed by the sheer strain being exerted on its already mangled hull, as its engines struggled to cope.

The spotters on his crew began to holler and point.

Counter-boarding parties, sighted on the enemy hull. Jump-packs and boarding weapons, scrambling to assault positions. Kelpo rushed to the window; caught a glimpse. Then he lost sight of them for the briefest of moments. Then he heard the resounding hollow clang of steel boots across the outer hull.

"Prepare to receive boarders!" Stren bawled. "Ready yourselves!"

The men grabbed whatever they could within snatching distance. There was the repeated click-whine of Detron sidearms being powered up. They grabbed bill hooks and spare javelins; plasma torches and wicked knives. Kelpo heard the chunk-click of more than one shotgun being readied. The crew pulled on respirators and raced toward the ladders leading to the outer hatches; roaring challenges, psyching themselves.

Kelpo shook his head, stunned by the audacity of the _Severance's_ plan.

It defied all logic. To attempt a boarding when surrounded by superior numbers was considered suicide, nine times out of ten. Today, the rulebook was being rewritten.

The ink would be no less red.

* * *

Telin looked at the lines straining as they winched the _Transaction_ closer and closer.

Both ships lurched and groaned; the _Transaction,_ doing its best to slip the snare; the _Severance_ , trying to close the gap and match its speed and trajectory. The _Short Position_ drifted closer, angling its own harpoons to bear. It was still out of range, but the gap vanished steadily with each passing moment. All the while, the weapons of the _Severance_ locked onto the smaller incoming ship, punishing it as best it could. Weapons glowed red hot, falling silent. The _Short Position_ bore down on them; bloodied but savagely determined.

Man for man, the _Severance_ could take the _Transaction_ , assuming the crew were as ruthless as their reputation said.

But beset on both sides, they ran the risk of being completely overwhelmed.

Telin blinked. An idea came to him. He snapped his fingers aloud.

"They want the Tenno."

Telin pressed the com stud on the side of his chair, opening a channel to Engineering.

"Kael, you reading me, kid?"

As Telin waited for a response, Teico looked at him.

"What's the plan?"

Telin flashed the comms officer a dangerous grin.

"Give the people what they want."


	29. Chapter 29

" _Let me be clear and unambiguous in our response: Anyo Corp does not foresee any further disposals at this time; and any disposals made are no reflection of Anyo Corp's Market Capitalisation. Any rumours of a Solaris uprising are just that: rumours, soon to be quashed."_

\- Nef Anyo, addressing market jitters

* * *

As the barges locked horns and clashed in the skies above Prospect 141, the ground fight enjoyed a momentary lull: a welcome reprieve for the rebels; all but exhausted from the initial assault.

Crouched behind a statue in the open plaza, Vanger Hosk knew they had to keep pushing. Every moment they delayed, the Corpus manufactories produced more and more of their proxies; a machine-stamped army at their beck and call. The odds would only skew further and further in the Board's favour. And yet, as they pushed across the open clearing, Hosk saw the waiting battlements of Watch Control's mighty ziggurat; the defence towers and fixed emplacements that would sweep the Solaris down in droves. He saw the way his own people stop for breath in what little cover there was; run ragged since that first bloody push from the landing site.

A knot of despair tangled in his gut.

To delay was to reinforce the enemy. To advance, certain death. The Solaris were brave, as brave and tough as could be, but volunteers. Only Hosk and his agents had formal combat training, and they were scattered throughout the rank and file in the command roles necessary to maintain some semblance of coordination.

A mighty metal hand landed on his shoulder.

Mirage started down at him. There was no expression in those jewel-like eyes beyond a manic, burning intensity. Sara's voice emanated around the Frame, resolute.

"Hold your people back, Hosk."

"We can't stop!"

"We have to. Look at your people, look _around_. They won't make that push. Not yet."

Hosk looked at the men and women beside him. Those capable of expression were lined with exhaustion; their faces drawn and pale. The mechanised betrayed no expression, but the heaving rise and fall of their shoulders, the sweat drenching their necks and overalls told him enough. They were all too human. Hosk himself could feel every ache, bruise and scrape he had taken in the murderous push.

Hosk nodded grimly. He gave the order, sounding a halt to their advance.

Positions were taken, in the plaza across from Watch Control. Spotters established; sniper teams settling on rooftops and drill-fixing anti-material weaponry into dark tiles.

Further afield, City Watch forces melted away, ceding a vast swathe of territory to the Solaris advance. The Solaris crept through abandoned guild houses, wired from the combat high; jumping at shadows and thoroughly spooked.

Nevertheless, the opportunity was seized. Forward command posts were established in key positions around the ziggurat; the rebels garrisoning everything from eerily silent temples to abandoned clearing houses; their trading floors empty but for a scattering of discarded data slates and blinking monitors, showing line after line of scrolling stock data. The stock tickers showed downward arrows next to Anyo Corp. The Solaris saw this and let out a raucous cheer.

The Solaris insurgency dug in, the ziggurat looming in the distance.

* * *

The markets were down. Anyo had shorted its position in Prospect 141. A mysterious new buyer. Speculation was rife that a potential takeover of their wider assets in the sub-sector was imminent.

The boy sat cross legged on the floor of his ship, watching the rapid assimilation of market data unfold in real time. The Corpus were often predictable. One hand tapped at the holographic keyboard; the other swiping window after window; arranging a tableau before him. Every floating window was precisely organised; their position just so. It was a dizzying amount of information to track, but the boy drank it in without the slightly semblance of trouble. Trade data; troop movements. Much of the information was illegal. Much of it he had personally extracted from Corpus data-vaults; with or without their consent.

A picture began to form.

Ah, there it was. A Corpus frigate, moving in from low orbit. Doubtless Anyo, looking to quash the rumours of a fire-sale, or any loose talk of open Solaris insurgency. That meant military grade proxies, elite soldiers; even orbital bombardment, should Anyo decide to simply mothball the troublesome colony entirely. Whatever the case, one thing was clear: Vanger Hosk's little rebellion was on borrowed time without direct intervention.

Brown eyes dark and thoughtful, the boy opened the com channel.

"Sara, you're going to have company."

* * *

Isolde and her companions arrived at the Eastern Landing Bay. It was quiet here, as quiet as could be, given recent events.

The Eastern Bay was situated on the opposite side of the Upper Tier to where the insurgency had made their blazing entrance. The collapse of the data stacks had left much of the colony without power. Those worst affected were in the Low Tier, where an already distressing level of privation was further compounded by a loss of power and automated emergency services.

Here, everything still functioned, but barely. Emergency lighting bathed everything in a malevolent red. They edged through the gloom carefully; Vern on point, his Lex in his hands.

Vern's boot splashed in something. He looked down. He realised that not all of the red around them was from the emergency systems.

Blood. It pooled across the floor, splashed the walls and spattered across the ceiling in great arcs.

There were no insurgents here, no signs of struggle or gunfire. Only wanton slaughter.

Most of the bodies were Corpus. Men, women; even children. Panicked traders for the most part, hoping to flee the uprising; only to encounter something far more dangerous. The occasional City Watch guard was identifiable only by the occasional severed limb or crumpled, discarded helmet.

Neera gagged. They all turned to look at her; Isolde eventually patting her on the arm, trying to console her but doing an otherwise terrible job at it. The others, hardened killers all; kept a watchful eye on every corner, primed for combat.

Vern was used to blood; had been around violence most of his life. This was different. It was calculated; brutally one-sided. It had been done as a demonstration; some kind of declarative challenge.

It had been done without the guards getting off so much as a shot.

Parson-Luk crouched down, dipping his fingers in the blood. He tasted it briefly; tasted the fear. He looked up at Vern, expression grave.

"Fresh Boss. Thirty minutes, tops."

Vern swallowed. They hadn't heard a thing.

Weapons raised, they advanced deeper into the docking bay; creeping forward. Neera followed behind the mighty Grineer; the only sound the heavy plodding of his feet, and the ticking rasp of his war rig's breathing apparatus. Even his breathing seemed elevated.

They rounded the corner. Brakarr held up a clenched fist. The team froze in place.

A Moa was pinned to the wall; one of its legs still kicking. Brakarr examined the body, grunting as he pulled free the item pinning it in place. The Moa collapsed to the floor with a clank that made Neera jump in the dark.

Brakarr tossed the object to Isolde. It was small, metallic and preternaturally sharp.

"One of yours."

Isolde turned it over in her hands. It was a kunai, identical to the one pinned in her hair.

The hairs on her neck stood up. She didn't need her Void Sense to get this spooked.

"Keep moving." Vern said quietly. Even he seemed on edge.

They swept into the open landing bay itself.

Every transport was ablaze; a hellscape of crackling fire and rising, twisting smoke.

A Bursa unit had been deployed to counter the butchery. The Bursa was an advanced security drone, intended only for the most extreme threats; known for its lethality in all hard-contact environments.

No longer. The Bursa slumped in the middle of the Docking Bay, surrounded on all sides by burning transports.

Speared through its central processing core was a single, golden sword; coated in the blood of innocents, planted like some murderous flag.

Isolde stepped forward, scraping the blade free; expertly turning it over in her hands. The blade was ancient; its edge keen and hungry. A priceless artefact of Orokin design; she examined its hilt with ever-mounting dread.

The sigil was a brass eye; the bas-relief picked out by a single emerald pupil inset into the hilt; its edges chased in luxuriant silver threaded with gold. A thousand memories stirred within her, each darker than the last.

Isolde knew it well. Had fought and killed and bled for it centuries ago.

Had sworn never to wear its instrument of war again.

The House of Septimus.

The House Eternal.


	30. Interlude: Communing

" _Explain to me then, how we beat them._

 _We send our fleets, and they are annihilated; scattered across the cosmos. Our towers fall, one after another; cannibalised by those wretched_ things _. We send our warriors, and their weapons fail; or worse. The Grineer Solution has failed. The Plague has failed. Even the mighty Dax fall in droves; slaughtered on the killing fields. Nothing works._

 _We cannot outsmart them. We cannot overwhelm them. So I ask again; how in the name of the Void do we beat these devils?"_

" _Simple._ _With devils of our own."_

 _-_ Unknown conversation, Vitruvian 4-12 (Recovery Site Redacted)

* * *

 _Then._

The House Eternal is a vast, twisting place; hushed hallways, solemn libraries and open courtyards. And yet it does not lack joy. Scholars and scientists and artists mingle and laugh. There is the sound of music, of food and wine and merriment. The people sit in groups, conversing and debating; living perfect lives, far removed from the devastation which visits the rest of the Empire.

It is a place of learning; of science and understanding.

And strength.

The Dax train apart in the open cloister; a golden army of gifted fighters, splendid to behold in their glittering armour. They drill in concert, moving as one; blades weaving and twisting; turning and spinning. All in sequence; a mesmerising flow of relentless steel and rigorous discipline.

The Tenno sit apart; heads bowed in meditation. Their drills are over for the day.

Now is a time for contemplation and reflection. They commune; heads bowed, eyes closed. They feel the Void's touch upon them, and master its energies; plumbing the hidden depths within.

Sara fidgets slightly, her restlessness clear. Doric scowls at her, now distracted. Isolde and Kael remain models of discipline, lost in thought.

"Focus." Sohren chides them both, a soft smile betraying his amusement.

The oldest, he has been appointed their leader; first amongst equals.

The war is coming. They have been told as much. When they go to war, it is he that shall lead them.

Trainer crosses before them, the Dax phalanx snapping to attention as he passes.

The Tenno rise to their feet, bowing deeply.

Trainer salutes Sohren; who returns the gesture; a clenched fist folding over his chest.

They have been summoned.

They walk through the Dax formation; the golden warriors parting like a sea and bolting to attention; sabres rattling in raised salute.

The Hall of Receival is an audience chamber more opulent than Isolde has ever known, or will ever see again. The Tenno are seldom here, unless they have misbehaved and are forced to clean it; scrubbing simple wooden brushes across the endless stretch of cool marble. Sara knows the space intimately; has spent more time here than the rest of the Cell combined.

Isolde for her part never ceases to be amazed at its beauty.

It is an opulent, vaulted space; with statues dedicated to Dax heroes past and present. They line the hall like silent sentinels.

Today the space is different. It takes Isolde a moment to place it.

A red carpet has been rolled through the centre of the chamber. The normal retainers and courtiers have been banished; replaced instead by five shapes hidden beneath silken sheets. They stand before the steps leading to the end of the chamber. A set of careful eyes watches them from afar.

At the summit of the room, Lord Septimus awaits; reclining in his golden throne; flanked on either side by decorated Dax veterans.

He is a tall figure, impossibly so. Imperious and noble; his hair is neatly combed; luxuriant and thick. His robes are a crisp artic white, that accent an perfect physique. No hair is out of place; no fold or crease is present that was not placed there by meticulous design.

The seldom smiles he offers are reserved only for his favourites: artists all; select talents he offers generous patronage to. Those favoured are as many as they are varied. A sculptor from Phobos; whose statues decorate the many corridors of the House; depicting great feats and histories of warriors throughout the Empire. A gifted harpist from the Tower of Eritrea, whose lilting music drifts through the corridors and elicits tears from even the most hardened soul.

And the Tenno; most especially the Tenno. Septimus smiles broadly.

Isolde fears Lord Septimus. Not for what he does or says, but for the presence he commands. The House Eternal is a powerful place; and that power swirls through him like a vortex. He is its confluence; the master of a domain defined only by boundless wealth and power. It is said he is as old as the House itself. Isolde has little reason to doubt this. Generals come and go, bending the knee before receiving their orders; pressing his campaigns and enforcing his will throughout the stars beyond.

Of all the children, Isolde has always been the most cynical. She does not trust the House. Its appearance flatters to deceive. A bastion of Orokin learning and understanding, yes; but with particular purpose. She sees little beyond the confines of their dojo, and yet for all its artistic trappings and scientific leanings she knows the truth: The House Eternal is strictly martial in the scope of its ambitions.

Lord Septimus bids them closer with a magnanimous sweep of his hand.

His voice is a silken burr. It fills the chamber and grips those present.

"Step forward, Tenno; that I might look upon you and see our salvation."

The Tenno stepped forward, falling into line in lock-step; eyes staring straight ahead, backs straight.

"Sons and daughters of the Zariman. Children of the Void. You have trained hard; honing your minds and bodies for the trials that await. I wish that you could remain here forever, so that we might explore your gifts to their fullest potential. Alas, the war is on our doorstep. You are needed."

Septimus rises to his feet. Even at a distance, he is perfumed. He wears no unguents or fragrance: the very air itself shifts around him; accommodating him. The smell is lilac and wild elderflower. It all but overpowers them as he descends the stairs, the unnerving smile never once leaving his perfect face.

He cups their chins in his hands as he passes each of the Tenno in turn; examining them as a carver would its proudest carving; or an artist its masterpiece. Isolde shudders inwardly when it is her turn. His touch is cold and clammy, despite the flush of chemicals that threaten to overwhelm her and tell her abject lies at a genetic level. Ever disciplined, she steels herself; silently enduring the objectification. Yet another trick. Inside, her resentment builds.

"I thank you for the dedication you have shown." Septimus says, as he steps past them, approaching the robed shapes beyond. "And for such dedication, due reward."

He steps to one side, bidding them closer to the shrouded figures.

"Yours, to deliver a kind of war only the Void itself can unleash. You will be artists, and these tools… your instruments."

To their shock, Lord Septimus bows. The invitation is clear.

The children step free of formation, unaccustomed to being allowed to do as they please. Nevertheless, they unconsciously approach the robed shapes as one. Isolde considers the silhouette before her; lean and slender. It is a statue, perhaps; some decoration for them to enjoy. Her Void Sense tugs at her; compelling her ever forward.

Isolde stops inches from the statue. She is Tenno; details are not lost on her. The statues' arrangement is as the Tenno always sat, as they always drilled. None of this is accident. This statue, of all the other statues before her, speaks to her more than any other. Beckons her closer.

Isolde reaches out, pulls back the sheet. She blinks.

She is mistaken.

It is no statue at all.

She stares up into a face without eyes; cold steel, smooth and polished and gleaming. And yet beneath, she senses rage, and pain; a rage and pain that she herself has shared ever since that fateful day on the Zariman. She places a hand on its chest, her throat tightening; her mouth dry. Her anger is quite forgotten, overcome by breathless wonder as she feels a kinship the likes of which she has never experienced.

Lord Septimus is correct. She will become an artist, and this gilded armature, this Frame her instrument.

Together, they will compose a symphony of destruction the Empire will never forget.


	31. Chapter 31

" _We need assistance, damn you! The Solaris; they're on our doorstep!"_

" _The Corpus Navy acknowledges your request, Director Mehrino. A vessel has been dispatched, and will be with you within the next four to six hours, Standard Corporate Time."_

" _Six hours? The vermin will have overrun us by then!"_

" _If you have complaint you would like to register about our service line, please hold, and we will connect with a customer service Cephalon—"_

\- excerpt from terminated Corpus transmission, Prospect 141

* * *

Hosk toured the line with Mirage, as the Solaris gawked at their two unlikely champions: the terrorist and the Tenno. They ducked through holes blown in walls; rubble crunching beneath their feet; passing knots of resistance fighters huddled together; bathed in dust and sweat. Sara knew she was being paraded; did her best not to intimidate the Solaris as they hesitantly smiled at her: offering a nod here, a small wave there.

Her Frame aside, all eyes were on the barge fight above. The compulsive gamblers amongst the Solaris (ever resourceful when it came to entertainment) placed private bets on the outcome. Many of the other rebels simply sat in silence; watching the sheets of fire exchange between the distant airships with faces lined by exhaustion.

It was these quiet people Hosk gave the most attention to. He stopped with each of them; making sure they remembered to hydrate, or breaking the tension with a private joke or proffered smoke. A different strategy for every soul. Some he could not reach, too traumatised from the brutality of the fighting. Hosk left these broken few with a gentle pat on the hand, leaving a bottle of water or a ration pack behind as quietly took his leave. The medics would follow in due course.

Mirage watched Hosk in careful silence; mirroring the Tenno's own fascination. Such compassion was alien to Sara. The Old War had been fought differently.

A tremendous ear-splitting boom rent the skies above.

Everybody threw themselves flat, thinking it an incoming artillery strike. Mechanised workers across the line stumbled and fell; cybernetics stuttering. Cries for medics filled the air.

Only Mirage stayed on her feet. She looked up to the sky.

Hosk gaped up at her from his particular spot on the floor.

"What was that?"

Mirage's eyes never left the sky. Sara whistled.

"Graviton Cannon by the sounds of it. Risky, this close to the colony."

"Somebody means business?" Hosk clambered to his feet, dusting himself off.

"That, or they're getting desperate."

* * *

Kef Mehrino was in a furious debate with the Corpus Navy when the Graviton strike happened; killing the signal and causing every piece of glassware in the boardroom to rattle despite the reinforced plating around them. He swore, hurling the glass in his hand against the wall with an enraged snarl. Bottles of sparkling wine still covered the boardroom table from his premature celebration earlier. He snatched up an open bottle; swaying slightly as he mumbled to himself. The deal was falling apart before his very eyes.

Kren Maruk ignored him; instead standing by the observation window, marvelling at the barge brawl unfolding. He was a military man; had served his time across the furthest reaches of the Rail, prosecuting the enemies of the Board whenever and wherever it was asked of him. This posting was to be his retirement; a way to live out the twilight years of his contract in relative peace.

Kren Maruk chuckled at that. He didn't care. It was better this way. Boardroom politics did not interest him. He was a devout man, with the broad frame of a service crewman; his leathery skin heavily stencilled in the faith markings of the Prophet. Maruk would marshal the City Watch in the defence to the best of his ability because that was what was expected of him.

He was not a gifted strategist, but knew war; understood it. Had lived it his entire life.

Something about the airships furious battle stirred something in him. Old memories of Grineer invasions long past, where the gene-kin's barges had smashed into their own trade flotillas, high above the ice floes of Europa. Of ship to ship fighting; and the brutal hand to hand that could only follow. He did not envy them.

Kren Maruk watched the grav-tethers snake out between the barges; saw shapes falling from the barges that he knew to be doomed men, but barely registered as little more than specks at this range. A bloody business. He shook himself. There was a job to do.

He tried his com-line once more, ordering a status report on the interception team he requested some time ago.

Yet again, the Eastern Landing Pad failed to answer.

He tried again.

* * *

"What is it?" Terrenus Vern asked.

The bounty hunters stood apart from Isolde, who studied the golden nikana in her hands; her slender frame backlit by the crackling flames.

"A message. From an evil long buried."

Isolde looked up at Vern, expression grave.

"We can't leave this place."

A new voice answered her.

"Very astute."

Eythan stepped from the shadows, his long robes thrown back; golden armour rendered a burning burgundy-crimson by surrounding blaze. The fury in Isolde's eyes burned hotter than any fire.

"Eythan Dax. You did this."

The Dax stepped forward, slowly advancing. He offered the slightest shrug; armour clicking with the gesture. His voice carried with it an augmented burr.

"No witnesses, no distractions. No escape." Eythan Dax continued advancing, footsteps loud in the desolate chamber. "Your presence is required, Tenno. You have been summoned."

Isolde's chin tilted upward in defiance.

"By whom? Your masters are dead. I buried them myself."

"They are the House Eternal. They will not be denied."

Eythan Dax held up a gauntleted hand; palm facing them. There was a magnetic hum, and the blade leapt from Isolde's hands; hurtling across the chamber.

The blade snapped neatly back into Eythan Dax's waiting hand. It sank back into its sheath faster than Vern could track.

The bounty hunters snapped weapons to bear. They were renegade Exchange operatives; killers all. No lofty words or solemn warning preceded the sudden barrage of gunfire.

Eythan Dax had already vanished; enveloped by a blinding flash of light and smoke.

By the time it cleared, little more than yawning darkness remained.

A voice drifted from the rafters above: everywhere at once; and yet nowhere.

"Final warning, Tenno: The Northern Dock. My Lord awaits."

Then silence left the hunters rattled in the dark; alone but for the crackle of flames and the smell of death.

* * *

As the airships ground together, a pealing squeal of metal splitting the air and echoing across the entire colony, the City Watch reinforced its position, glad of the lull in the Solaris assault.

The manufactories had not been idle. A phalanx of Moa assembled before the ziggurat; ten drones deep. Above them, a buzzing storm cloud of shield ospreys; small flitting drones that prowled the line, bolstering the frontline. Corpus infantry filed out from the base of the fortress, assembling behind the proxy wall; standing at rigid attention.

It was an intimidating show of force. They stood brazenly in the open, as if daring the Solaris to come and meet their fate.

Solaris spotters called the development in.

Hosk lowered his binoculars, hissing air through clenched teeth. This is what he had been afraid of.

Mirage sat beneath him, her back to the wall by the blown out window Hosk perched beside. Sara was nonchalantly disassembling his Burston rifle for the third time; cleaning it with surgical precision. Anything to keep herself occupied.

Hosk looked at her, shook his head.

"You don't seem worried."

Mirage was firmly focused on the rifle in her hands.

"What's there to be worried about?"

"We're outnumbered, for one."

Mirage shrugged.

"I'm a Tenno. We're always outnumbered. What else?"

She popped out the magazine, inspecting the receiver for grit. Grunted. Hosk tried again.

"Every second we delay, their army gets bigger."

"You can't push now. Not yet." Sara slapped the magazine back home; nodding in satisfaction. "You'll just have to wait."

She handed the rifle back to Hosk, then rose to her feet. She joined him by the window.

The Corpus army stretched out before them; rippling under the heat of so many shield systems in close proximity. If the sight bothered Sara, it never registered in her voice, as she mused:

"I've never found it easy. The waiting. Was never very good at it. 'A true warrior knows patience, or knows nothing'; that's what Sohren used to say. I never listened."

Mirage stared up at the battle that raged in the sky. The fires glinted off the skin of Warframe, as Sara shook her head; voice thoughtful now.

"Perhaps it's time that changed."


	32. Chapter 32

_Atmospheric Work Area. Extreme Caution Advised._

 _All employees operate at their own risk._

\- Corpus Warning Sign

* * *

"Up, up, up!"

The crew bundled towards ladders; boots clanging on steel decking. Kelpo focused on one rung at a time; the sound of his breathing huge in the confines of the respirator mask Stren had hastily shoved his way. The mask was a sorry, weatherworn hand-me-down; visibly patched in places. The smell of burnt plastic and sour sweat was overwhelming.

Kelpo followed the first man out; his vision little more than a narrow slip of glass that threatened to fog over any second. All he could see were the boots of the man ahead of him. Above, he heard roared challenges. Close range plasma discharge. Another rung. The flamer danged loose on its strap; slapping against his thigh and clanging whenever it caught the edge of the ladder. The final rung now, then the narrow pressure channel that marked the end of the climb. He squeezed through the hatchway.

And was suddenly blinded. The pink swirling light of the Venusian sky stabbed deep into his eyes. Even this far in a terraformed zone, the wind speed proved savage at this altitude; whipping against him and threatening to blow him away outright.

Kelpo swore and stumbled as he exited the ladder, tumbling face down onto the deck.

It saved his life. A plasma cutter raked the air where his head should have been.

Kelpo rolled onto his back, hands blindly fumbling for the flamer. He triggered it accidentally.

The burst of liquid fire enveloped the hijacker before him in a single jet. He went up like a bonfire; thrashing and shrieking. A plasma bolt smashed the man off his feet, where he tumbled over the edge of the hull and mercifully out of sight.

Stren appeared in Kelpo's visor, a smoking Detron in his hands; eyes bulging through the visor of his rebreather.

"On your feet lad! Gotta clear 'em off!"

With that Stren gripped Kelpo by the webbing, hauling him to his feet.

"Harness; harness; go!"

Hands trembling, senses overloaded, Kelpo found the grapple-line on the front of his environment suit and latched the hook onto the safety. Cinched it tight. Too tight. He went to move and it almost wrenched him off his feet. Stren snarled and fussed over him like a concerned aunt; fixing Kelpo's rig for him. Stren slapped his shoulder.

"Now! With me, lad!"

They staggered across the hull; bowed against the howling wind. A fierce melee had broken out across the top of the hull. Anything went in a barge fight. Rifles, sidearms; crude axes and plasma cutters. A no holds barred frenzy of headbutts, machetes and screams.

Their attackers favoured jump packs and mag boots. This was effective for an initial assault; allowing them to accurately seed themselves across the hull, but made their movement slow and clunky. The crew of the _Severance_ by contrast clung to the ship with grapple lines; making them more nimble as they slid expertly around the hull, but frightfully vulnerable.

Kelpo watched as one of the _Severance_ crew smashed an assaulter on to his back; trying to fall on the man with a knife. The assaulter snarled and simply slashed the harness line in return; planting a mag-boot in the man's chest. The wind did the rest; snatching him up and away without so much as a shout.

Stren let out a muffled howl in anger, throwing himself forward and sliding across the sloping surface of the hull on his rump; the Detron spitting in one hand; the other expertly feeding the grapple-line. He moved with frightening speed despite his size. Kelpo did his best to keep up, stumbling and thrashing as his line continued to catch. He was a surface scavenger. Altitude work was all too new to him.

A burst of light in the sky caught Kelpo's eye. More jump-packs; descending from on high. They filled the sky. Stern saw them too, opened his throat and bellowed:

"Incoming!"

Assaulters descended in a storm of shouts and clattering metal.

Something smashed into Kelpo, driving him off his feet. He lost the flamer; where, he couldn't tell. Suddenly he was on his back, an assaulter leering over him; a knee pressed into Kelpo's chest. Crushing the air out of his lungs. A Prova spat in his face; inches from Kelpo's faceplate.

Kelpo Marr saw red. He was not a tall man, but not a soft one either; had been a surface scavver all his life. Rock climbing and mountaineering had left him lean but well-muscled; shoulders broad and strong. On a purely physical level, Kelpo was not a man to pick a fight with lightly.

He smashed his faceplate forwards so hard he cracked his own visor. The assaulter stumbled back; his own helmet askew. The weight on Kelpo shifted. Then Kelpo was on him, smashing his fist into the man's respirator again and again; denting the housing where the air-tubes circled up into the man's boxy helm. Hissing atmosphere sprayed out, blinding Kelp. He didn't stop; relentless.

A pair of hands pulled him back.

"Easy boy! He's done! He's done."

It was Stren. He was right too. The body beneath Kelpo lay broken and still; his faceplate a dented wreck. Kelpo wheeled about, still in a frenzy; amped on an adrenal surge so intense it felt electric. He drank in the brawl, chest sucking air into screaming lungs.

More and more assaulters rained down upon the _Severance_. The _Forward Transaction_ had gone all in on the attack; abandoning weapon stations and non-essential systems: committing every body they possibly had to the assault. They would take the _Severance_ and its cargo, or die trying. Even veterans like Stren had never seen an assault of its like before.

"Back, fall back!" Stren bellowed, waving at his men. He might as well have ordered the wind to stop. There was no orchestrating this mess. Not now.

Kelpo watched a third wave of fighters blaze in through the sky. A final push, to finally overwhelm the _Severance's_ dogged but beleaguered resistance.

A coursing surge of electricity caught the assaulters mid-air; arcing from one to the next. Jump packs exploded or simply shorted out entirely. Tumbling bodies bounced off the hull like meaty rain drops, before scattering into the wind.

Kael had emerged from below deck; tethered to the hull by a force unknown. He lowered his hand; tendrils of power still flitting from one finger to the next.

One ill-fated assaulter rushed him; swinging a plasma torch. Kael grabbed his wrist, snapped it with a flick of his thumb; before finishing the man with a final surging jolt. Volt calmly removed the torch from the man's grasp, before letting the wind steal him away. The assaulters froze in their tracks; stricken with the realisation that the cargo they so desperately sought had now come for them instead.

Volt looked over at Kelpo and Stern; the cutter held low at his side. He nodded to the hatch behind him, once.

The message was clear.

"Everybody back; clear out!" Stren roared.

The _Severance's_ crew scrambled back behind the Warframe, retrieving their wounded as they broke free of the melee. Stren and Kelpo didn't stick around the watch the ensuing slaughter. They heard it begin as they sealed the hatches behind them; shutting out the shrieks and the surging crackle of eldritch power.

* * *

"Boarding Deck, what's your status?" Teico asked. Telin and the rest of the bridge crew waited with baited breath. They had heard the muffled bangs and screams across the hull.

Stren's voice filtered out through the bridge, on loud speaker; ragged and breathless.

"Tenno has 'em now. Poor buggers. What's the word?"

" _Short Position_ is closing fast. Stay on the _Transaction,_ we're rigging the Boarding Gate now."

"Right. Not a whole lot of us fighting fit up here."

Telin was already on his feet.

"I'm enroute."

Telin made a single stop on his way to the Boarding Gate; following a tracking signal on his wrist unit as he wound his way through the ship.

HWK-44 had been left in secure storage; just another trophy seized on the frontier. Its engine was still dented from its scrap deep beneath the ice. The drone had been fitted with a restraining clamp; which popped free with the slightest tug.

The drone shivered to life; then warbled at him cheerfully as it slid into the shoulder mount of Telin's hard-suit.

"Good to see you too, buddy. We've got work to do."

* * *

It is perhaps to the credit of the crew of the _Forward Transaction_ that the majority of them did not surrender outright when the Tenno fell upon them. They rushed him from all sides, fully committed to the end. This was understandable. One did not shirk from an Exchange contract and expect to live a long or happy life.

Kael shortened it for them. He held a plasma cutter in each hand now; the fizzling torches whirling and snapping as he flowed through them; scattering broken bodies left and right. Volt slashed one torch across the face of an onrushing hijacker; dropping the torch and spinning the man around by his webbing; absorbing a storm of incoming shots intended for the Frame beyond. Volt snatched a kitgun from the dead man's webbing; whipping it free as the body tumbled aside. A hair trigger beam repeater; colloquially dubbed a Flutterfire.

Kael tested the name; ripping a bevy shots into the oncoming scavvers. The power cell glowed red hot and he cast it aside; meeting the rest of them hand to hand. Fists moved as blurs. Bones broke. An elbow here; a jolt of sparking power there. They fell in droves.

Volt whirled about, looking for the next opponent. None came.

The hull was scabbed with stray plasma fire; but was eerily empty; but for the occasional tethered body here and there; where the fallen were still held in place by mooring lines or a stray mag-boot. The few surviving assaulters had simply leapt overboard; hoping against hope that their jump packs would be enough to arrest their descent to the burning colony below. The Tenno never saw what became of them.

Volt looked out to port. The _Short Position_ was closing fast; cannons inert, its intentions clear. It meant to attempt a boarding of its own. Kael had no intention of allowing that. He crossed the hull quickly; stopping to retrieve a wicked machete from the webbing of one of the fallen. The blade pointed downwards in one fist, the plasma cutter in the other; the Frame crouched low, readied himself.

There was a surge of power. Volt sprinted: lightning fast; faster even than the howling wind. Kael leapt; sailing through the air; his syndana whipping around him as he spun through the air; the Void itself guiding his trajectory. Kael saw the widening eyes of the _Short Position's_ bridge crew, moments before he impacted.

The leap had been at the very limits the Tenno could make; even with the Void behind him. He barely made it.

It was not a clean landing. The plasma cutter failed to connect; all but imploding in his hand as it smashed against the hull; tumbling from his grasp. The machete bit deep, arresting his fall one-handed. For a heart stopping moment, the Warframe clung on, scrabbling for purchase; before he finally dug his fingertips into a seam of plating and managed to claw his way further onto the hull; abandoning the machete behind him.

The crew of the _Severance_ never saw what befell the crew inside the _Short Position_. All they registered on their scopes was the smaller barge breaking off; desperately trying to shake their new stowaway. Then their scanners registered heated weapons fire; an extreme power surge, and then a series of smaller, internal detonations.

Then nothing.

Through the rear view cams, Teico watched the _Short Position_ angle upwards, on a new trajectory; trailing fire and ugly smoke from its belly.

It began to loop around; angling about on a new heading.

* * *

The Boarding Gate was a very genteel term for what was ultimately the barge's equivalent of a siege tower: a snarling, toothed drill rig which extended from the hull and lanced deep into the flank of enemy ships.

Telin found Kelpo crouched outside it; attended by Stren and two of the other crew. He was getting his hand hastily bandaged.

"What happened to you?"

"Lad did good." Stren clapped him on the shoulder like a proud father.

Kelpo held up his mangled fingers.

"Broke my hand."

"Fug. Sit this one out."

Kelpo shook his head.

"We need every man we can get."

"Boarding team!" Stren's voice was a hoarse rasp now. "Thirty seconds!"

Less than twelve of them stood ready; bloodied, battered and bruised. They banged fresh tanks into chemical throwers; readied knives and low calibre breaching weapons; energy-shotguns for the most part. They doffed their environment masks; replacing them with ear protectors and bowl-shaped helmets; buckling on less bulky respirators intended only for emergencies. Telin noticed that more than one of the crew had historic chemical burns marks of their own. Ship to ship fighting was sweaty, brutal affair. He steeled himself.

The cables finished winching the _Severance_ alongside the _Transaction_. There came a thumping bang. Then the drill cut in; spearing into the _Transaction_ with an ear-splitting metallic shriek. The deck vibrated with the bone rattling force; as plasma cutters dotted along the Board Gate's seared to life; adding to the sawing frenzy. The noise was deafening.

Deck plating tumbled inwards. Automatic launchers spat all manner of flash-bangs, smoke grenades and concussion charges into the breach. Smoke tumbled back up the drill corridor, twisting and whirling.

Telin and Stren looked at each other; primed to barrel into the mist.

"Stop! Stop! _Enough!_ " a voice cried through the tumbling smoke. "We surrender!"

Captain Leonid Sobil and his bridge crew filed out, choking and spluttering; hands high in the air. More followed; thoroughly cowed. They had witnessed the slaughter of their comrades first hand. The prisoners outnumbered them almost three to one.

Sobil kept his back straight, expression tight.

"Who is in charge here?"

Stren looked at Kelpo. Kelpo looked at Stren.

They both looked at Telin.

"I… uh… accept your surrender." Telin shrugged, offering the man an uncertain salute.

Sobil returned it, nodding impatiently. Sweat beaded his brow.

"Yes, yes, yes – just keep that bloody _thing_ away from us."

* * *

Kael-as-Volt sat in the scorched bridge of the _Short Position_ , the airship's control yoke rattling in his hands. He tried the com again. It too was fried. He may have gotten carried away.

He tried transmitting from the Frame directly.

" _Severance_ , this is Kael, respond."

Nothing. The ship plating was playing havoc with the atmospherics.

Even so, a new voice answered him. One he had not heard in centuries.

"Quite the show you're putting on, Stranger." Kael could hear the smile in Sara's voice. "I just lost a bet."

A jolt ran through Kael sharper than any Void charge.

"Sara! What are you doing here?!"

"Was meant to rescuing _you_ , but got a little… uh, side-tracked. Look, there's a million things I want to say but we've no time. There's a revolution to be had. Game?"

Kael wrestled with the control stick. Controls were sluggish, but little by little, he adjusted course.

Watch Control swam into view.

The altimeter plummeted with each passing second.

"Inbound."


	33. Chapter 33

_"Cold: the air and water flowing,_

 _Hard: the land we call our home…"_

\- Solaris work song, unattributed

* * *

Hosk watched Mirage stare at one descending barge in particular.

It was trailing smoke; an ugly plume of streaking fire that vented freely. An emergency landing was imminent. And yet the corrections to its bearing were deliberate, its intentions clear.

It aimed for the Plaza.

"What the hell is that?!" Hosk flapped in amazement. It was headed straight for the central plaza.

Sara seemed entirely unconcerned.

"Our opening."

Hosk scrambled for his com.

"All units, incoming contact. Watch the sky! Keep your heads down!"

Hosk snatched up his binoculars; gaping in disbelief as he tracked its descent.

There was a figure atop the descending barge. Literally riding atop it; clinging low to the hull for dear life; its blue cape flapping. Sara chuckled fondly.

"He did always like to make an entrance."

The Corpus guarding the ziggurat saw the barge coming. The crewmen scattered in all directions; all semblance of cohesion stolen by the sudden yet imminent arrival of a few hundred tonnes of descending metal. The Moa and the Ospreys remained as they were; a perfect tableau of order and discipline, as the shadow of the barge washed over them.

They were still neatly arrayed when the _Short Position_ hit.

It impacted with a sound that was heard as far as the furthest weeping posts of the Frozen Sector: a metallic thunderclap that shattered most of the surviving windows in the Upper Tier and knocked every combatant within the immediate vicinity off their feet. Even Mirage had to steady herself, such was the ferocity of the shockwave.

The metallic shrieking was worse; as the barge scraped through the heart of the phalanx; scattering Moa like skittles or simply shredding them beneath the weight of the advancing metal. Ospreys burst as they were swatted; the shrapnel swallowed up by a plume of smoke that joined the vast columns of dust emanating from the ruins of the data stacks in the distance.

The dust would linger there for several hours; choking the heart of the Upper Tier in a miasma that clouded sensors and blinded the fixed emplacements seeded throughout the ziggurat.

Hosk shook his head, utterly stunned.

A lone figure emerged form the swirling, choking mist; wreathed in the very destruction it had just unleashed; seemingly unscathed.

A Warframe; twinned spikes out jutting from its arched, dome-like head. An ancient warrior from another era. It strode toward the Solaris line; crackling with electric power; oblivious to the Armageddon behind it.

It looked straight at Hosk even at this extreme range.

Hosk blinked, lowering the binoculars. He turned to Mirage.

"He with you?"

"With _us_ , technically." Mirage was already moving, the kit-gun in one hand; her bladed whip in the other. "It's really more of a collectivist revolution, right?"

Mirage walked alone across the plaza; the bladed whip in her hand held aloft in salute to a comrade long thought lost.

Volt raised a jagged machete in return; the Frame's allegiance clear. A roar went up through the Solaris rank and file. One Tenno had been cause for hope. Two super-charged morale entirely.

Despite his exhaustion, Hosk grinned. He sounded the order.

"All units, forward to the ziggurat! Advance!"

* * *

The Boardroom had been designed to sustain all manner of punishment. In a society where corporate espionage and infighting were as real a threat as any worker insurgency, it paid to be paranoid. The glass around Kef Mehrino was bullet proof, beam-shielded and triple-reinforced; designed to protect against every conceivable threat. Airships had not formed part of the design brief.

Nevertheless, it held.

Kef Mehrino was a gibbering wreck, hiding beneath the boardroom table; clinging to a bottle seemingly for his own sanity.

Kren Maruk, thoroughly dazed, collected himself quickly. He had survived worse in his contract: he would survive this. Or give a damn good account of himself, at the very least.

Tactical assessment was grim. The entire frontal defence screen had been flattened in the most literal sense. Those that survived were either in complete disarray or entirely too isolated to be considered viable combat assets. Not that the Watch was beaten. This was their home turf. Even with the shift in initiative, they were not helpless.

Maruk ordered the auto-manufactories to continue deploying units at maximum rate; desperate to replenish their sudden losses. A calculated risk on his part. They were already at risk of over-heating. Then he shifted the majority of his forces within the ziggurat to the front elevation. There was a hole in the perimeter. He needed to plug it.

Kren Maruk's next order to the Watch was brief:

"All units, reinforce the forward line. This Temple stands, or we fall."

Then he picked up a cool glass of water, and stepped over to the plated glass of the mirrored window; taking a measured sip as he watched the Battle for Prospect 141 enter its next, brutal phase.

* * *

Visibility was awful. The fixed emplacements picked shots out; measured bursts that probed the twisting smoke, but they were firing blind. Nevertheless they maintained the cycle rate; hoping to discourage the Solaris advance if nothing else. Ammunition was of no great concern with plasma munitions. The only issue was overheating, and the City Watch were shrewd; disciplined. Staggered bolts of energy lashed out into the choking dust; sweeping the perimeter.

Moa units surged forth from access hatches dotted around the edge of the ziggurat; flowing out from great doorways mounted in the temple's side and down the fascia of the temple proper. They charged forth into the dust; sensors clouded but hunting for targets at minimum range. Corpus warriors charged out behind them; rifles up, Provas buzzing in their hands as they groped in the dark. Their helmets did little to aid them; serving only to further limit their comprehension of the choking chaos.

The Solaris met them head on. With hammers and welding torches; plasma cutters and improvised clubs; wielding the very tools that defined their enslavement. They lunged through the dark and smashed into the Corpus with a mighty rattling clash; chopping and smashing; demolishing Moa and crewmen alike. Corpus beam weapons flashed through the swirling murk; lancing through rebels and splitting flesh from bone. Hundreds died on both sides; as a chaotic melee swamped the base of the temple.

Twinned shadows hunted through the fog; ripping a swathe through the Corpus rank and file. Hosk led his people through the gap, tripping over a carpet of disassembled drones and broken crewmen. Ahead he saw thunder clouds, lighting strikes and a brilliant starburst of yellow light; a savage, twirling beacon for them to follow as Volt and Mirage wreaked havoc upon their enemies.

There was a break in the fog.

The Warframes stood atop the slumped wreck of the _Short Position_ , fighting side by side; felling the enemy with blinding speed. Mirage turned and urged the Solaris onwards. The rebels let out a resounding roar as they charged, crashing into cover beneath the shadow of the broken barge. It formed an unlikely defilade from the Watch positions spitting down from the ziggurat.

Spotters got to work; clambering through the broken hull and angling targeting scopes on key positions across the front of the temple. Resistance mortar fire began shrieking through the air, ripping great chunks of masonry of the temple's façade. The weight of return fire slackened, but the Corpus showed remarkable discipline, even under the wailing deluge of shells.

More Corpus fighters surged forth from the ziggurat; rushing the bulged and broken hull that now formed an unlikely bulwark on the defenders' very doorstep.

The Solaris were at a strategic disadvantage. The Corpus had elevation, and even in the smoky gloom; any Solaris that had the temerity to rush the staircase were swiftly cut down by the entrenched defenders.

Kael led the charge up the main stairway; a shield of pure surging blue energy held in his hands as he led a knot of Solaris with him. The weight of incoming fire was staggering, but the Frame continued its relentless advance, one step at a time. The rebels picked shots over his shoulder; hard-rounds super-heated as they passed through the energy shield and ripped clean through Corpus bodies.

Mirage held the salient atop the _Short Position_ , a looted Cestra in each hand now; butchering incoming Corpus that tried assaulting from either side. Corpus snipers tried to pick her off, but blinked; finding themselves faced with five targets instead of one; that seemed to blend and sift with each twisting shift in the smoke.

The ziggurat's defences were defined by three firing slits; deep trenches inset into the surface of the sloping temple; protected by a front annex accessed by the primary stairway and two secondary stairways that fed in from either side. The Solaris had a foothold on each; converging on the annex from all three sides. The Watch did not cede ground lightly; the crewmen holding out and stubbornly licking out shots until their weapons glowed white-hot in the dun smoke.

The Solaris were not denied, however. They closed the gap on the annex. Now it was storm clearance; another frenzied push. Grenades thumped and starbursts of shrapnel sliced flesh to ribbons. The fighting became desperate hand to hand, or point blank, frenzied firefights that left dozens of fallen bodies steaming on the floor. Volt's machete sang as it chopped and diced; a blurring whir in Kael's hands.

Step by step, inch by bloody inch, the Solaris advanced up the front of the ziggurat; beset on all sides by the City Watch's finest.

* * *

Isolde and her companions paused atop ruins of a collapsed bridge way, surveying the battlefield from afar. Behind his faceplate, Brakarr's rheumy eyes lit up; revelling at the sight of so much carnage. Parson-Luk for his part said a silent prayer, kissing the ritualistic beads that hung around his neck as he shook his head.

Vern grimaced, then spat on the ground..

"No way we're getting through that. Not directly."

Isolde said nothing, her eyes on the horizon.

She saw the Northern Landing Pad, through the occasional gap in the mist. Saw the Orokin barge that awaited her; the House Eternal's sigil a silent challenge. Her eyes narrowed, her throat tight.

She made a decision.

"You won't have to." Isolde shook her head, starting forward on her own.

"You're mad, girl. It's a damn warzone."

"I understand that, Terrenus. Warzones are not unfamiliar to me. But this is my fight, my decision."

Vern shook his head.

"Nuh-uh, kid. We're in this together. Whether you like it or not."

"You go, we go." agreed Parson-Luk. Brakarr growled his assent.

Isolde regarded each of them in turn, inwardly touched; but shook her head, resolute.

"I'm afraid that's not possible. This is one hunt I do alone."

Vern bristled at that.

"Void take you! We do this together!"

Isolde smiled sadly.

"This isn't your war, Terrenus. You can't win it for me, and I won't ask you to."

With that the pale Tenno bowed deeply, then vanished, seemingly stolen by the wind.

Only her voice lingered; leaving them with a final set of parting instructions.

"Find a transport. Leave this place. I will look for you when it's done."

Vern snarled in frustration; eyes scanning on all frequencies. Void static, but little else.

Isolde was gone.

* * *

In low orbit over the Frozen Sector, the Corpus cruiser _Dominant Factor_ began to slow; its belly hold yawning open; disgorging shoal after shoal of streaming dropships. They sped toward the surface; flaring hot as they entered the upper atmosphere; a meteor shower of white hot stars lit bright against the dark side of the planet. Aboard, Corpus Navy readied weapons and murmured incantations to the Void, giving thanks to the Prophet.

The boy watched them intently, hidden from their scopes.

He rose to his feet, padding over from the meditation mat that lay beside the vast viewing pane, nearly tripping over the kavat that mewled for his attention. He shoed it away as he keyed his com.

"Sara? You read me?"

No response.

The boy shook his head, making for the rear hold of the Liset. He stretched as he did so.

An old habit. It would not be his own muscles that carried him into battle. He would operate from within the confines of a Somatic Link. But the flesh he wore would be all the keener if his mind was attune, the Transference Link all the stronger for it.

His Cephalon bleated at him, warning him about this risk and that. He ignored it entirely.

Even for a Tenno as patient as him, there was only so much observation he could handle.

Sometimes, you had to get your hands dirty.

* * *

Vern scowled at the horizon, watching the war unfold. Brakarr prepped for war; giving his rig a shake test. Parson-Luk crept carefully about at the base of the mount of rubble, eyes hunting for a sign of a trail that Isolde may have left behind. He hissed in frustration. He had taught her all too well.

Neera crouched at the foot of the pile of rubble, still furiously trying to reprogram the com bead.

With a victorious hiss, it warbled to life. Crackling Solaris chatter filled the air. Panicked orders for the most part. Some were savagely cut short. She made another slightly adjustment.

It was a private channel. One they had reserved back when her parents had supported her uncle; warning him when a Watch sweep was passing through.

"Uncle Veng! Uncle Veng can you read me?!"

Vanger Hosk rolled back into cover, back into the annex. Volt marched ahead; the shield vibrating under the volume of energy rounds slapping against it. Hosk's ear-piece buzzed at him.

Reflexively he switched channels. Hosk strained to hear above the roar of the battle.

"This is Hosk!"

He blinked when he caught Neera's voice. Urgent, insistent.

"Neera! Where are you? Are you safe?!"

"I'm fine! I'm here with Vern and the others."

" _Terrenus Vern_?" Hosk gaped in disbelief "The bounty hunter?!"

"It's fine, uncle; he's a friend! I think. Where are you?!"

Hosk looked out over the city. Beneath him, the sweeping slope of the ziggurat gave way to a sea of smoke infused with lancing plasma fire and roving bodies. The Solaris swamped all sides of the citadel. They were winning, but at brutal cost.

"We're taking Watch Control. Stay away. The Tenno are with us."

A Solaris artillery shell sounded off above him. By the time the tumbling dust had settled Hosk only caught the tail end of his niece's transmission.

"- have to warn them!"

"Say again? Warn who?"

Neera's voice was gone; the transmission little more than static-laced soup; overwhelmed by the sheer weight of plasma discharge in the air.

"Neera? Hello?!"

* * *

Neera repeated the transmission; over and over.

"The Tenno, you have to warn them!"

She swore in frustration; finally breaking the connection.

Vern looked at her.

"Get through?"

Neera shrugged.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"So we're on our own." Vern shrugged, "Fine by me."

Neera looked at each of the hunters in turn. "What's the plan?"

Vern sniffed, nodding at the Northern Landing pad.

"We know where she's headed. That's a start."

"You're going after her? After she _just_ explicitly told you not to?"

Vern just nodded stubbornly; both hands holding his webbing.

"Seems that way."

"And the golden guy with the sword? He doesn't give you pause?"

Vern snorted at that.

"Gold or not, he'll bleed the same as any."

Neera shook her head.

"I'll never understand you people." She rose to her feet.

"Where you going?"

Neera pointed in the vague direction of the Northern Dock and the Watch Control. Another trio of explosions wracked the face of the ziggurat.

"That way. Same as you. My uncle's somewhere in the middle of that mess." Neera stabbed a thumb in Brakarr's direction. "And if it's all the same to you, I'd rather have him with me for the trip.

Vern looked at Brakarr, eyebrow raised.

The massive Grineer gave an expansive shrug of his massive shoulders, his chuckle muffled by his faceplate.

At the foot of the bridge, Parson-Luk cocked his head to one side, a mischievous smile on his face.

He had taught the girl well, yes. But for all her ability, she forgot that he was the great Parson-Luk. No detail was lost on him.

The tracker leaned close to the smallest displacement in the rubble, where the Tenno had stolen away; masked by the Void. The pattern was no footstep or overt boot marking. Nothing so sloppy.

But Parson-Luk was Ostron; Cetus-born. He had walked the Plains as a child, had smelled the touch of the Unum's power; had stalked between the stirring Eidolon as a young hunter; unmoved by their plaintive wails and trembling stomping feet. A land rich in the Void's taste; a battlefield from the Old War, it had been his home. You learned to sense the Void's work quickly, or paid the price.

He started after the scent, the bones around his neck jingling as he padded after the trail; going by nose and nose alone.

The companions followed, picking their way carefully through the ruins; bound for the maelstrom that raged at the heart of the city.


	34. Chapter 34

_"Push to keep the dark from coming…"_

\- Solaris work song, unattributed

* * *

There was only two of them in the Boardroom now. The staffers had fled; quietly vanishing as the Solaris advance bit deeper and deeper into the Watch's perimeter. The room was quiet and still. The shelling had stopped, which meant only one thing.

"They're at our doorstep now." Kren Maruk took a final sip of his water. He set the glass down gently.

The Watch had fought admirably. The Solaris had paid for every step taken with their lives, yet there was only so much his men could do. The Solaris fought like demons possessed; mechanised faces screaming blue murder as they threw themselves up the slope. Scrap metal and torn bodies heaped the approach, but for all their discipline, the Watch could not hold out in the face of the rebels and their wretched Tenno champions.

The Solaris spilled through the firing lines; raking down crewmen with savage arcs of their hammers; as arcs of electricity lanced out and fried fleeing crewmen; who fell shrieking and thrashing.

Maruk crossed to the Boardroom table. Kef Mehrino had emerged from beneath it; bleary eyed; eyes wired and wild in terror. The Director stank of booze, as he blinked up at Maruk helplessly.

"What do we do?!"

Kren Maruk shrugged, rummaging for the case he had brought with him when he first arrived.

He set the case down on the table. Personal effects, the various little trinkets he accrued over a long contract. He had sent for it some time ago.

It contained little. There was his first Flux rifle and helmet, from his days touring the Rail with the Corpus Navy. A hologram of him and his old war buddies; hunkering triumphantly over a downed Grineer dropship. A gem he had found on the cold surface of Europa; polished to a fine lustre after a long day's patrol.

It also contained a pistol, an antique slug thrower; presented with at his last promotion, in recognition of lifelong service.

He bolted the helmet on, his lined face disappearing behind the slit red visor.

The pistol he gave to Mehrino. He kept it brief:

"You wanted the colony. It's yours now, I expect; though for how long remains uncertain. Defend it, or don't. Try not to let them take you alive."

With that the old commandant started for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I have been a soldier all my life, Director. I will die as one. For the Void, for my corpus."

With that Kren Maruk opened the Boardroom door, and stepped out.

Alone, Kef Mehrino picked up the pistol, hands quaking as he studied it.

* * *

Kael roared at the Solaris to take cover. He ducked back.

The electric shield he carried dissipated; fizzling out with a descending pop. He had pushed his Frame as he could; channeling the power of the Void to the point of exhaustion. Hosk and a clump of Solaris rebels were still with him, hell-bent on reaching the summit.

Sara's voice was in his ear.

"Kael, get inside." He could barely hear her over the keening shrill of her Cestra. "We need to get the auto-factories offline if we're gonna win this fight."

"Understood."

Volt turned to Vanger Hosk. The old man looked as though he had aged fifteen years in as many minutes.

"I need a way inside."

Hosk nodded, flashing a hand signal at two of the larger Solaris beside him. They were coolant workers by trade; burly men, whose boxy robotic faces stood at odds with their sloping shoulders. The war had found them with a new trade.

The Solaris slapped demolition charges on a sealed doorway; yelling at their comrades to fall back.

The charges detonated in an eruption of venting smoke and chunking masonry. Coughing from clogged filters, they flashed Kael a sooty thumbs up.

The Warframe dove into the dun smoke; racing for the heart of the fortress.

Hosk roared at the Solaris around him.

"The rest of you; with me! To the summit!"

* * *

High above the colony, removed from the murderous conflict that tore the Upper Tier apart, The _Severance Package_ remained tethered to the _Forward Transaction_ ; its hook lines still gouging deep into its sister ship's belly.

The two ships had drifted some distance away from the core of the fighting, and now floated alone in the sky; their plating scalded from the merciless brawl that had brought both barges to the very brink.

An uneasy partnership developed. Sobil's crew, cowed by the number of casualties visited upon them by the Tenno, and the factual realisation that their quarry was far too dangerous for them to contain, settled into an uneasy truce with the very crew they were trying to murder mere moments before.

Profit could wait for another day. Right now, survival was everything.

Besides, Sobil's men had no intention of inviting further reprisal from the Void Demon, absent or otherwise.

The _Severance's_ crew for their part accepted their assistance with gruff pragmatism. Scores would be settled later. Right now it was business as usual. Get the ship repaired. Get it moving.

Kelpo watched the two crews work together; Sobil directing his men as Stren pointed out the best means of extricating the savage javelins embedded within the hull. Grav-tethers remained in place; as both crews worked in tandem to undo the damage.

Severed connections were soldered; worn plating welded shut or cut free entirely; used instead to patch further holes throughout their respective hulls. A chain of command was established, with the crew of the _Severance_ ultimately taking charge of the two ships. When asked who was in command, Teico and Pohld had looked at each other and shrugged, before pointing at Telin in unison.

Telin Voss, an unlikely captain, swallowed inwardly, but did his best to act the part; deferring to Stren and the other veterans wherever possible. HWK-44 wobbled in the air behind him, offering its assistance wherever it could.

Sobil politely inquired as to Bravic's whereabouts. Telin wasn't sure what to say. Kelpo simply pointed to the melted deck plating around the vicinity of the command throne, stony faced.

Telin got the measure of Sobil quickly. He was a careful man, good on detail. He was also a worrier.

"You realise we'll be hunted for this now. The both of us." Sobil stroked at his moustache thoughtfully, "The Exchange's reputation for punishing failure is legendary."

"We'll deal with them when the time comes. Right now we need to retrieve Kael."

"Kael?"

"The kid… uh, Tenno."

Sobil paled.

"I see."

"Relax, Sobil; if the Exchange does come knocking, I'd rather Kael answer the door."

The shrill of a proximity alarm cut their conversation short.

"What do we have?" Telin asked, crossing the room. The view from the _Severance's_ bridge answered his question immediately.

The dropships descended from the atmosphere; hurtling in with all speed.

"Multiple contacts!" Teico announced. "Corpus Navy; rapid descent!"

"How many?" Telin asked, stepping forward.

"Uh.. sixteen. No wait… second group coming in." Teico blinked. "A third."

"Void's Teeth." Telin breathed, as the sky filled with streaking engines; too many to count.

The Board permitted many things in the wider pursuit of profit. Mergers, fire-sales; even civil war, on seldom occasion; hostile takeovers in the most literal description.

But open insurgency was another matter. The Solaris would not be permitted to defy the Board's authority any longer. They would be broken; put to the sword; crushed in both body and spirit: their survivors mechanised and sold into the most punitive form of life-debt imaginable. From the shipyards of Velasco to the debt-interment colonies of Prospectus and Fortuna; the message would be heard, far and wide.

A singular response, one that burned in the minds of the Solaris and etched in their collective memory, reminding them of their place for generations to come.

Full scale planetary assault.

* * *

"What the hell is that sound?!" Neera asked.

Vern looked up, lip twitching in a grimace.

Brakarr boomed a challenge; mashing an armoured fist against his war rig. He unshipped his rotary cannon, pre-emptively cycling the rotor.

Parson-Luk simply stared. He had seen ships and go, flitting in and out of Cetus. This was something quite different. This was a whole new level of war.

"No time." Vern hissed. Neera wasn't sure whether he was referring to the colony or their present circumstances.

"Move!" Vern barked at them, a startling degree of urgency in his voice. "Run!"

They fled for the ziggurat, as keening engines filled the sky above.

* * *

Mirage looked up to the sky, distracted by the drone of descending engines. Ice flooded Sara's veins.

They were out of time.

"Hosk. Get your people out of here."

"—we're close! So close!"

"Hosk: _Look up_."

Hosk turned on the steps. His eyes widened in horror.

The first wave of the Board's forces touched down in the very landing zones the Solaris themselves had carved into the Upper Tier; disgorging men and material in volumes far beyond the Solaris' means to openly contend.

Limitless resources, endless control. The Board's power was absolute. A finger of despair stirred in his brain.

He had led the men and women around him to certain death.

A calmness took over Hosk. The summit was just ahead. Kael had vanished into the heart of the citadel, dead set on burying the auto-manufactories' control source; entirely unaware that for all the good it might do, another legion of proxies was set to wash the insurgents away.

Hosk's own objective lay just beyond reach.

Or perhaps not.

As Kael laid waste to the inner halls of the temple, the number of Corpus still manning the summit had thinned considerably. It would be some time before the Board's army reached them.

They had a window; a precious window, to make all the difference.

"For the Solaris! For freedom!"

Hosk charged the steps; he and those reckless few.

Statistically, the rebellion should have ended there and then. They were outnumbered. They were downhill, mercilessly exposed to the flow of bolts that snapped down and bit deep. Bodies fell.

It didn't matter. The Solaris committed. Bullets rang out, clear and true. Soldiers of the Watch fell back, stunned by that desperate, defiant charge that would echo in folklore; immortalised in the forbidden songs, sung by the surviving workers long after Hosk's passing. What followed was a frenzied clash.

The details would be forgotten, remembered solely by this account, and this account alone.

Hosk alone reached the summit unscathed. How fate had spared him from the merciless fire not even the Void itself knew. He stumbled when he reached the top step, his legs giving out. Hosk fell in an undignified sprawl; a vice-like cramp shooting through his leg.

He was alone on the summit, surrounded on all sides by heaped bodies; Solaris and Corpus alike.

Ahead was the Boardroom. A single glass doorway, framed by onyx stone.

The door opened. A Corpus soldier charged out.

A single shot rang out. Kren Maruk fell without so much as a murmur; a hole burned through his chest.

Hosk looked back at the figure who had reached the height of the summit with him.

It was a young Solaris boy, the same one who had stumbled and sank beneath the coolant in the march to the transports, from what seemed like a lifetime ago. His tattooed face was filthy and he was bleeding; a searing plasma shot having fused his shoulder to the environment suit around it. He had been with Hosk every step of the way; from every street corner to makeshift trench. Every bloodied step.

The boy collapsed to his knees, ragged with exhaustion; delirious. Hosk went to help him, but the boy flapped his hand, waving him onward. Hosk nodded. There was no time.

Hosk pulled himself forward, hopping forward. His rifle was spent. He cast it aside. He entered the Boardroom; looking around. It seemed clear.

Venger Hosk hastened for the access console at the head of the Boardroom table.

Beneath it, Kef Mehrino shivered in terror, the pistol clenched in his hands.

* * *

Isolde saw the descending dropships, turning her back on them.

She felt for the rebels, in truth. But this was not her war. The Corpus would continue to brutalise their own people, as they had for generations. Their time would come, eventually.

For now, there were greater tyrannies to confront.

She marvelled at the splendour of the Orokin ship, even as a repulsive shiver coursed through her spine.

Eythan Dax awaited her on the Landing pad.

There were no other guards, or enemies.

"You came alone."

Isolde nodded, hands clasped at the small of her back; back straight, her chin high and proud.

Eythan Dax nodded, pleased; his voice a rumbling purr.

"Good."

He started toward her; one hand on the hilt of his nikana. Armoured cleats clanked on steel decking.

Isolde watched him draw ever closer, face utterly expressionless. Her hair blew freely in the wind.

Clasped in her hands was the single kunai, silver and sharp.


	35. Chapter 35

" _Feel the weight of what we owe."_

Solaris work song, unattributed

* * *

Neera's legs burned as her feet slapped against the broken tile of the open plaza.

Ahead stretched an open battlefield. The ziggurat was ablaze; pock-marked by shell fire; wreathed in a haze of smoke. The firing ports were silent. Bodies clogged the approach. Drones heaped the floor; rendering the once ornate plaza a wrecker's yard. The battle had ended. The Watch were broken.

For the rebels, it was a pyrrhic victory. City Watch was theirs; right as the Corpus Navy landed on all sides of the Upper Tier; establishing a cordon that would only cinch ever-tighter, strangling the rebellion in its infancy.

There was no time to worry about any of that. Her uncle was just ahead.

They were almost there.

* * *

The Data-Mass' teeth bit into the Boardroom data console with a metallic snap.

Hosk worked quickly; letting the sub-routines do the heavy lifting. It had taken him months of searching and a lifetime of favours on the black market to secure a hacking programme of this calibre. The investment paid off. The program bored clean through Corpus security protocols, abusing the senior access control afforded by the ziggurat's command console. Ship movements, security rotations; personnel files of every Solaris labour camp this side of Venus. Every Corpus secret, every logistical weak point exposed; documented and stored for Solaris United to exploit at their will.

Hundreds of people had died for this. Their actions today would save many thousands more.

Solaris United had reprimanded his plan, when he had suggested it. It was never sanctioned, not formally. The cost was too great, they said. Were anyone to follow him, it would be strictly volunteers only. This was understandable. Direct conflict was, in all likelihood, suicide. Based on the sheer weight of Navy materiel currently touching down across the Upper Tier, Hosk was not inclined to disagree.

But there were some causes worth dying for.

"Don't move." Kef Mehrino's voice cracked.

Vanger Hosk turned and looked at the small sweating trader with the quivering pistol, a wry smile of surprise on his face.

"Missed you, hiding down there." Hosk shook his head ruefully. He was entirely unarmed.

The console bleeped at him; the message bright blue on the screen:

 _Data sequence complete. Would you like to extract?_

"Don't touch it!" the pistol rattled in Mehrino's hands as he shook it, insistent, "Stay right as you are!"

Vanger Hosk looked at the console, then back at Kef Mehrino. Hosk saw the man's sweaty lip quivering; a face unblemished by war or blood or any semblance of hardship.

Hosk offered a contemptuous snort, turned his back on Mehrino and stabbed the console with his finger. The Data-Mass clacked free, the process complete.

Right as the pistol sounded, once.

Hosk nonchalantly shoved the Data-Mass back into his rucksack.

Then he pulled a chair out from the boardroom table; dragging it squeakily over to the vast observation window, ignoring the diminutive trader entirely. Kef Mehrino balked at being so flagrantly snubbed.

"But… but I shot you!" Kef Mehrino protested.

Hosk looked down. He had too. A blossom of red pooled across the front of his environment suit. Neat, as exit wounds went. He felt light-headed, but there was little pain beyond a dragging coldness.

Vanger Hosk took what little time he had left. He rummaged in his pack; producing a stylus and the Data-Mass. He scribbled a note on its side, before folding his hands over it, protectively. The Data-Mass was all but indestructible; password-protected with a code only he and his most trusted allies knew. No amount of physical tampering would bring it harm.

Kef Mehrino pulled a chair up alongside Hosk, quite unsure as what to do. He still had the pistol in his hands, but felt little compulsion to use it; ignored as he was. He could hear the throaty yells of more rebels approaching.

Hosk settled himself in the chair, enjoying the view of the burning Data Stacks; the carpet of ruined proxies that littered the open plaza. The ruins of the once-decadent Upper Tier skyline, backlit by the Venusian ever-sun.

The Board would reclaim this place, or destroy it; but today they had sent a message. That mattered.

"Some view." Venger Hosk chuckled.

Kef Mehrino went to answer, but the old man was already gone; that soft smile forever frozen on his lips.

* * *

Mirage awaited the coming storm; a silent sentinel at the foot of the ziggurat.

Sara's first instinct when she saw the Grineer charging across the plaza was to leap to the attack. Then she saw the Ostron running beside it, earrings jangling. That was a first.

Kael appeared at her side; his Frame placing a stalling hand on Mirage's shoulder.

Volt's twin horns dipped in a shallow nod.

"Friendlies."

The two Warframes stood astride the _Short Position_ , watching as the motley crew of bounty hunters approached. They slowed in trepidation. Even Vern seemed spooked by the sight of the Tenno; and the Corpus mass grave that surrounded them.

Neera didn't recognise Kael until the boy's Warframe slackened; the boy materialising in a flash of incandescent light. He bowed deeply.

"Kid!" she blinked in shock.

" _Kael_." The boy insisted. "But good to see you Neera."

"We're wasting time." Vern growled. "Isolde needs our help."

Volt and Mirage locked their attention on him with laser focus.

"So she is here." Sara said.

"Where?" Kael asked.

Vern's cheek twitched in a rare display of emotion.

"Nowhere good."

* * *

Isolde waited for Eythan Dax to close before she struck; the kunai splitting the air.

It slammed into the Dax's throat. Blood pulsed freely over her hand.

Eythan Dax just smiled at her coldly.

She blinked in surprise. There was no warmth to the savage wound he had been dealt. Just an electric, tickling sensation; as the Dax seemed to warp and distort before her very eyes.

The steel that suddenly tickled her throat confirmed her suspicions.

"You think me so easily fooled, Star-Child?" Eythan Dax's voice growled in her ear. "I learned your brand of treachery long ago."

The spectre projection before her vanished. Something clacked around her neck.

A collar. Humming prongs studded throughout its inner side snapped out, tight against her skin. A rush of surging numbness flowed through every fibre of her being. The keen razor edge of the nikana relaxed, ever so slightly, as he leaned closer; taunting her.

"Did you really think we would allow you to exist without a means of _control_?"

Trainer's words stayed with her.

React, adapt. Fight or die.

Void Sense was gone. That didn't make her helpless.

Isolde snarled and spun; slashing wildly. Eythan Dax was a master of the Thousand Feats, the very same combat style she herself practiced. They danced and spun; sparks flashing. Kunai met nikana, over and over. He had range, she had nimble speed.

But not enough. Isolde was Tenno. Void-Child, Frame-warrior: a talented killer and a ruthless fighter. But without her Frame, still little more than a teenager; however absurdly skilled.

Eythan was Dax, a warrior fully grown: the very pinnacle of the Orokin fighting form; honed from centuries of conflict. There was no physical comparison.

His hand flashed out and struck her wrist; smashing the kunai from her grasp. Isolde's lashed out; a snap-kick directed at his collar bone. It spun away, deflected effortlessly. Physically he dwarfed her. His guard was such that for all her lancing strikes and twisting hits she may as well be hitting a brick wall. One that hit back, hard.

His open palm thrust was a feint. A flashing elbow snapped past her guard and caught her in the belly; driving the wind from her. Then his hands were around her throat, his gauntleted hand all but swallowing her chin. He squeezed and she croaked; vision blurring.

With a strangled snarl she linked both arms over his wrists; then hooked both feet over his arms; throwing her entire body weight into a rolling twist. They both tumbled down in a clatter of armour. Isolde rolled free, and was already up and moving. She sprinted for the shadows of the dock, beneath the belly of the mighty ship.

Eythan Dax chuckled in approval, rolling to his feet and retrieving his sword with a humming, out-stretched hand. It snapped back into his palm with a meaty smack. He stalked after her, armour rattling with each stride.

His purring chuckle reverberating against the shadowy gantries all around.

"Run and hide, Tenno. Run and hide."

* * *

The rebels parted like the sea when Neera stepped into the Boardroom.

Kef Mehrino sat at the table under guard, ashen faced and miserable. Crude iron manacles shackled his wrists.

They left Hosk as they found him; peaceful in his chair by the window.

Sara stood by him; her Warframe parked silent and still by the door. She had heard word over the radio. Had wanted to pay her respects in person. From one warrior to another.

She bowed at Neera, expression solemn.

Neera stepped forward, with leaden footfalls, a tightness in her throat. She rested a hand on his arm, and knelt beside him, blinking quickly.

Sara for her part placed a hand over Hosk's eyes, closing them one final time. She gently pried the Data-Mass from the man's hands; noticed the message scrawled by the stylus. The Data-Mass was caked with blood.

She wiped it clean, as best she could, before passing it to Neera.

"For you." Sara said softly. "Labour rosters. Access codes. Supply movements. More information than the Solaris could ever hope for. Every worker will thank him, and the others who gave their lives today."

Neera wasn't listening. She was trying to read the message through blurry eyes.

 _Neera_

 _My war has become your own. I can never clear that debt, or repay the cost you have paid in our struggle. I can only hope today settles a few scores._

 _For my brother. For your mother. For a brighter dawn; a better tomorrow._

 _With love_

 _Uncle Veng_

Neera clasped the Data-Mass in tight her hands; and wept.

* * *

They gathered at the height of the ziggurat. As many Solaris as could fit in the confines of the Boardroom. Mixed with Vern's rabble, it made for an eclectic mix: the rangy Ostron and the lumbering Grineer; the war-weary Solaris and the silent, predatory Frames.

Sara took charge, finding herself the leader of this sorry warband. A new plan formed.

Sara crossed to the holographic map of Prospect 141. The ziggurat lay in the heart of the Upper Tier. Board forces advanced on every front.

The map zoomed in. A long shaft formed a central spine through the heart of the colony. Smaller access tunnels darted off from it; facilitating the maintenance crews that toiled endlessly to keep the colony functional. Most of the tunnels had been strategically sealed by insurgent workers, though a few rat runs had been left open for emergencies.

She pointed at the map, commanding the room despite her diminutive height.

"There. Service elevator. City Watch used it to deploy patrols on short notice. Runs all the way to the Lower Tier. The Board have the high ground now, but the rest is still Solaris territory."

"For now." Neera wiped her face, composing herself. She had Hosk's pack on now; the Data-Mass stowed safely inside. "Once they retake the ziggurat, this entire colony will be be made an example."

"Not if we win." Kael replied. The boy had dismounted from his frame, and stood at Sara's side.

" _Win_?" Vern scoffed at that. "Did you miss that army on your doorstep, or has piloting that… _thing_ clouded your judgement?"

Kael met his stare openly.

"Numbers alone do not guarantee victory."

"Vern's right though." Neera shook her head. "We don't win this in an open fight."

"Then how do we win?" Parson-Luk asked.

One of the brawny demolitions experts; a bruiser of a mech by the name of Sparks spoke up, nodding at the Data-Mass Neera clung to.

"It's a holding action. The Data Mass contains everything we fought for. Extracting it is paramount, or else it's all been for naught."

A murmur of assent filled the room. Sara nodded.

"So we take the elevator, get the Data-Mass clear. Good. That's a start."

"Elevator or no elevator, you're forgetting something." That was Vern again. "Second the Navy takes this place, they're going to be swarming all over the rest of the colony. I've seen patrols deploy from that lift before. Quick isn't the word I'd use."

Sara nodded calmly.

"A rear-guard is necessary, I agree."

Brakarr immediately raised a hand as a volunteer. Vern scowled at him.

The Grineer lowered his hand sheepishly.

Sara smiled, but shook her head; her voice loud and clear.

"The Tenno will hold the line."

Kael nodded solemnly.

"That's a death sentence." Vern sniffed.

" _Two_ against an army?" Parson-Luk shook his head. "Impossible, even for Tenno."

Sara's smile lingered on the Ostron before she vanished.

Mirage shivering as the Transference Link took hold. Her chuckle filled the air.

Mirage cracked her knuckles.

"Who said anything about there only being two of us?"

* * *

It fell from the sky. The vague silhouette of a man against pink-scorched yellow clouds.

Long arms close to its sides; in free fall. The wind whipped and shrieked as it descended.

The shape never flinched. It never looked away from the drop-ships below.

The operator breathed deeply, utterly focused.

His skin was rock, his discipline iron.

Primed for destruction; he plummeted, like a meteor.

Like a stone.

* * *

The Solaris assembled on the elevator within the assembly point in the depths of the ziggurat. It was broad enough to hold them all, and then some.

Not that there was many of them left to hold.

Neera nodded, giving the order. The young boy pulled the lever. Nobody spoke as the elevator groaned to life, whirring them down into the dark.

Neera glanced around. Everybody was accounted for. Even Mehrino, who stood there shivering in shackles; a Solaris hand clamped on either shoulder.

All except the bounty hunters.

* * *

Parson-Luk slid the maintenance hatch aside with a grinding squeal; the bone knife he had used to unscrew the rivets lodged in his teeth.

He stood back, dusting his hands; nodding at his two companions.

Terrenus Vern and Brakarr were geared for war; festooned with looted ammo belts, combat knives and bandoliers of bulging grenades. Even the older hunter had augmented his usual assortment of slings, bows and snares with an altogether more lethal array of Corpus-looted tech.

Vern spared a glance over his shoulder as he paused in the hatchway.

"Clocks ticking. Let's move."

The bounty hunters piled into the dark; beneath the endless clang of marching feet.

* * *

The Tenno stood alone at the height of the ziggurat, watching the encroaching army.

A wall of light; shield auras and a sea of drones, rendered a haze by the sheer weight of numbers.

Kael had not seen a force its like since the Old War.

He looked at Sara.

"You think this is a good idea?"

Mirage shrugged.

"Well, it's certainly _improvised_. Two of us, a bajillion of them. Should be a good fight."

"No shortage of targets." Kael agreed, Volt rolling his neck as Kael limbered up. "Still getting used to being back in the Frame."

Mirage clapped him on the shoulder.

"Corpus have numbers. We have each other. We're playing for time here. Speaking of which…"

The second wave had almost landed. If the third touched down, the sea before them would surely become a tidal wave.

Advanced war proxies bounded across the ruined clearing. Lunging Hyena units; shrilling challenges of warbling scrap-code.

Sara opened the com.

"Doric, now would be a _really_ good time."


	36. Chapter 36

_Anomaly detected. Unknown object._

 _Caution._

 _Caution._

 _Caution._

\- Proximity warning, detected by the _Severance Package._

* * *

Telin crossed to the viewport. The repairs were almost complete.

The bridge crew had gathered; binoculars and eye scopes pressed to their faces.

At first they had come to gawk at the sea of dropships. Then something else caught their attention entirely. A pin-prick of fire in the sky high above, growing steadily larger.

"Is that what I think it is?" Pohld asked.

Neither Telin nor Kelpo could answer him. It defied belief.

A man, falling from a colossal height.

Only it was far too large to be a man. Far too dense; to a point where even the _Severance's_ tracking systems blurted an orbital alert.

The flitting shape was there, and then it was gone.

Then the explosions started.

* * *

Doric felt the Frame vibrate around him; the stone-skin that was not his own impervious to the shrieking wind. The Elytron Archwing harness lay cold and silent; invisible to scopes of the landing teams deploying below. The Navy went about its deployment, oblivious to the doom hurtling in from orbit.

The Elytron was defined by many things. Its snarling, turbine engines; full throated and muscular. By far its most notable feature was its payload. A trademark lack of subtlety.

Doric didn't bother deploying it at first. He let his Frame punch shoulder-first clean through a dropship entirely; trailing bodies and shredded fuselage in his wake. The lander lost control; swinging into the drop-ship beside it; triggering a monstrous domino effect that played havoc with the Corpus dispersal.

Then the Elytron's engines flared into life. Cluster munitions spat forth in its wake, shrieking into ground targets and tearing great fiery chunks throughout the Corpus Deployment Zone.

* * *

In low orbit aboard the Corpus Navy Frigate _Dominant Position_ , Captain Theo Plun frowned at the holographic overplay of the target area. His instructions from the Board had been rather brief. They were on their final security rotation in this sector. Another backward sector, in need of adjustment.

He sipped his caffeine. It had been a long shift. He wrinkled his nose. The caffeine was sour, almost cold.

The _Dominant Position_ was a troop carrier, first and foremost. The outer pickets got all the action. They seldom saw Grineer activity, this far over the Frozen Sector. Another routine dispersal, right on schedule. It was almost boring.

Still, the seismic reports seemed entirely at odds with initial surface scans.

"Strange," He mused absently, taking a sip from his mug. "I didn't order the ground crews to undertake preliminary bombardment."

His XO looked up at him, visibly sweating.

"Sir, that's not us."

The mug shattered against the deck.

* * *

A wall of fire rose up at the rear of the Corpus army. Dropships panicked, scrambling in all directions; many colliding. Some exploded outright; others split in half by searing sheets of pure energy; as a tiny shape in the distance flew amongst them; scattering them like a fox in a hen house, only far more murderous.

Even the bounding Hyena units skidded in their tracks, twisting about to see what the commotion was.

In the distance, a mushroom cloud went up, then another. And another.

Warheads rained from the sky. Armageddon. The sky itself was on fire.

"About bloody time!" Mirage cheered as a fourth mushroom cloud went up.

The Corpus army charged the ziggurat. Half in panic, half understanding - quite astutely - that it was better to at least engage their enemy up close than simply waiting to be mown down by the downpour of ordnance shrieking in from on high. A series of staggered electric shields met them as they charged up the slope; as piercing shots cut down men and drones alike.

Volt and Mirage met them head on at the height of the steps, two against a thousand.

* * *

Neera felt the elevator shake on its moorings. Dust sifted down the lift shaft. The lights dimmed momentarily. A nervous murmur went out amongst the Solaris. Glances were exchanged.

"What was that?" It was the bruiser of a welder, Sparks.

Neera looked up; eyes still raw.

"The beginning of the end."

* * *

Isolde fumbled and wrestled with the collar in the dark; teeth clenched. The mighty Orokin barge loomed above her, drowning the Northern Landing Pad in its shadow. For a premium berth the innards beneath were notably industrial; all dangling chains and grubbily functional work spaces for the maintenance crews. Glowing advertisement plinths pitched one luxury item after another.

The Dax could track her. Not precisely, but he walked in her direction every time she relocated; slipping from one shadowy machine shop to the next. If the inferno on the skyline bothered him, he didn't show it. Just one clanking footfall after another, patient yet relentless.

There was no running from this fight.

"Your Cell is here. Servants of the House Eternal, united once more." Eythan remarked as he stopped in the middle of the warehouse. "I wonder what they'll say to you, when I reunite you with them…"

Eythan's visor panned from left to right; one hand on his nikana.

"…Knowing you _abandoned_ them."

He shifted at the last second. The nikana met the pipe in Isolde's hands as she descended from the rafters above. She had to roll aside to narrowly avoid bisecting herself on the razor sharp blade.

Eythan Dax chuckled, thoroughly amused. He whipped the blade in a flourishing bow.

"Ever the creeping shadow, Tenno." He settled into a forward guard. "But no more games."

He swept toward her, faster than any human rightfully should. A neat hand-spring carried her clear, but only just. The blade flashed out, twice. Hanging chains and stacked engine cores fell apart in precise cross-section. In her haste to get away, Isolde's foot caught a box of spare parts and she went sprawling over on her back.

The blade was inches from her face, all but tickling her eyelashes.

"Desist." Eythan Dax towered over her. "Lord Septimus awaits."

A thunderclap threw the golden warrior clean across the room.

Terrenus Vern lowered the smoking Hek.

"I'd threaten you to leave the girl alone. But I've just about had it with speeches for the day."

By rights a normal man would be dead. Eythan Dax was no ordinary man. He rolled to his feet, his shield system fluttering and spitting as it re-asserted itself. The Dax's golden armour had absorbed the blast, but had been bruised an ugly chrome from where the pellets had caught him centre-mass. He rolled to his feet, groggily.

Vern looked at the Tenno blinking up at him from the floor.

"Yeah, surprise." Vern winked at her, then nodded to the door behind him. "Now scram."

"Not without you." Isolde shook her head.

"Non-negotiable, kid. Zone crawls with Corpus Navy. The others are waiting. Move. I'll finish this."

Isolde snarled and ran.

Vern stepped between her and the Dax, the shotgun raised. He thumped the door control one-handed. The emergency hatchway slammed down, sealing the Dax in the machine shop with him.

"Just you and me now, Golden Boy."

Eythan Dax took a low stance, the sword held primed in his hands. His lips curled in a sneer; disgusted that a mere Corpus had gotten the drop on him.

"This isn't your war bounty hunter."

The bounty hunter and the Dax faced off with murderous intent. Vern sighted the shotgun, eyes narrowed.

"Oh, I rather think it is."

* * *

Telin watched the ziggurat from a distance. He could just about make out Kael and his companion on the slopes. The trick wasn't to try and pick out a single shape amidst the horde. It was to spot the flashpoint where the horde suddenly and irreversibly _thinned._

Unfettered by the lack of friendlies in the vicinity, the Tenno unleashed their powers to the fullest. Sheets of electricity washed down the slope. A wave of energy bolts swept back and forth; occasionally interspersed with a twisting ball of vibrant colour; that clove through the Corpus army before exploding with a brilliant flare of light. Bodies tumbled freely down the slope.

The Tenno fought as demons. Navy Tactical Assessment struggled with the footage afterward. Statistically, the losses proved scarcely credible. Stocks for supplies all across the sub-sector shot up within the hour, such was the volume of replacement orders. The ziggurat ran red with blood.

Even so the Corpus army advanced; all but swallowing the temple. Not even the constant aerial bombardment deterred them.

The Tenno were being driven back, step by step. Encroached on all sides.

Soon, they would be overwhelmed.

"We need to help them." Telin said suddenly.

"You're joking." Sobil replied stiffly. "There? That's death."

Telin ignored him. He snapped his fingers. "Stren, what kind of ground ordnance does this thing have?"

Stren blinked at him.

"Mine layer hasn't been loaded in years." He scratched at his jowls thoughtfully. "There's the twin-linked Senta; couple of Mordda's and the fore and aft Akkalak; but ammo reserves are down. Running about thirty percent, give or take. Fight like that? We can't last more than thirty minutes, tops."

"What about energy cells? What do you do with the spent cores?"

"We've a containment charger." Stren blinked slowly. "You don't mess around with old cores."

"We do now."

"You're thinking of a Vallis Special?" Kelpo shook his head in disbelief.

"What's a Vallis Special?" Pohld asked, brow furrowed.

Telin grinned wolfishly.

"Couple cycles back Kelp and I had to clear an old Grineer mining wreck that went down near the Orb Vallis. Thing was buried deep. Used an old power core to jury rig an explosion."

"Nearly fried us both." Kelpo shook his head with a dark chuckle.

"You're both insane." Sobil folded his arms. "That's the Corpus Navy you're talking about – we're bloody _scavengers_ for Void's sake! Think of what you're suggesting!"

Telin grabbed Sobil by the hem of his environment rig; eyes flinty; nose inches from the man's face.

His voice was icy calm, resolute.

"It's like this Sobil. The Exchange wants us dead. The Board are about to bring their boot down on everyone and everything I've ever known and loved. Now we can sit here, and try and our weasel our way out of this; maybe try and scrape a profit on some other misbegotten spit-hole where we're not plagued by bounty hunters for the rest of our days. Or we can accept that maybe, just maybe, this is our fight too."

Sobil blanched. Telin released him, shaking his head; looking out the window.

Sobil looked at the others.

"And the rest of you? You're with him?"

Kelpo nodded without hesitation. Pohld and Teico murmured their assent.

"Aye, surely." Stren grinned; folding his burly tattooed arms across his chest.

"Great, so now we're terrorists." Sobil looked at Telin pointedly, "But if you're going in there, you're going to do this properly."

They all looked at him. Sobil offered a conspiratorial wink.

"Our mine-layer is perfectly functional, for one."

* * *

From behind the blast shield, Isolde heard Vern's shotgun discharge right as steel bit steel.

She needed this damn collar off. She needed the Void. She stumbled blindly, wrestling with the collar; as a rabbit chews the snare.

Something tackled her, smashing her into cover.

A brace of plasma shots cut the air where she'd been moments before.

"Down girl!" Parson-Luk hissed, shying back. "Company!"

Three Corpus dropships circled on the Northern Dock; search lights probing the gloom. An assault force of hardened military troops, two platoons strong. They fanned out between the densely packed gantries and columns at the base of the Northern Landing Pad; picking their way through the metallic jungle. Rifle torches flitted left and right.

Brakarr emerged from the shadows of a stairway, the eyes of his facemask a baleful yellow.

The Akkalak was not intended as a portable weapon. Brakarr was large enough not to heed such limiting physical factors. His was custom made, with a shortened barrel; fed by the mighty drum mounted on the back of his war rig.

Brakarr made it sing. It split the heavens; ripping tracer fire across the front of the dropships. Search lights burst and crewmen tumbled from side ports; all but shredded. A lightshow of plasma fire broke out in the chaotic space. Above it all, Brakarr's booming laughter. This was war.

This is what he lived for.

Even so, they hunters were woefully outnumbered. The Navy troopers responded with dutiful precision; splitting into two groups; bounding from cover to cover. Those caught in the open swiftly paid the price; reduced to splintered meat.

"Behind me!" Brakarr bellowed, retreating backward.

Parson-Luk had not been idle. Time and time again, Corpus ankles snagged tripwires; triggering explosions or electrified snares. Gas bombs popped left and right; choking air filters with clogging mire sourced from Earth's most virulent swamps. Others fell shivering, their skin pierced by dart traps carefully seeded throughout the innards of the Docking bay. The Corpus advance slowed to a crawl, as paranoia set in.

This was good. This gave the Ostron range, and distance.

The Grinlok rifle had been a gift from Brakarr; bestowed to the Hunter after their fateful encounter, which had nearly left them both dead on the Plains. The Ostron curled himself up behind a pillar as he put it to use; expertly slamming shot after shot down range. More twisted and fell; their helmets punctured with ferocious accuracy.

Isolde grabbed Parson-Luk by the wrist. The hunter started with a snarl, his blood up. His eyes softened when he saw it was Isolde.

"The collar! Can you get it off?!"

The hunter took the collar in his hands, assessing it with beady eyes. There were no seams, or rivets to work with. Just that smooth polished brass-gold finish.

"Ai yo… Orokin tech. Not good, Tenno. Quite valuable though." Parson-Luk looked over at Brakarr and bellowed "Eh! Ito-da! Over here!"

The Grineer trundled over dutifully; having to stoop his head under the dense pipework overhead. His war-rig was already scored with burn marks.

Brakarr took one look at the collar. He then set his mighty mechanical hands around it, and with a determined grunt pulled. The collar split with a sharp metallic peal.

The Void surged back in an instant. Isolde gasped as if surfacing for air.

Brakarr scrutinised her; offering her his Brakk side-arm. It was a snarling, brutish weapon.

"Tenno fight?" Brakarr asked.

"Tenno skoom." Isolde graciously grinned, taking the hand-cannon from him.

Brakarr boomed a chuckle, patted her on the head; then took up his cannon once more, surging once more into battle.

The Tenno and the Ostron followed.

The bounty hunters bled the Corpus as they pushed the Northern Landing Pad. Each fought their own way, their own style.

Isolde, Void dashing between them, breaking bones at close range; turning their own weapons against them in a ballistic, crunching ballet that swept her from one victim to the next. The Brakk snarled and thundered in her hands; a chomping, savage repeater that demolished armour and bone alike.

Parson-Luk thinned the crowds through careful marksmanship and cunning ambushes; constantly keeping the enemy off-balance.

And Brakarr, most of all Brakarr; with sheer industrious firepower.

The Corpus assault began to wither; as the dropships fell back. Isolde pressed the attack; racing after them. Parson-Luk followed, stalking from the shadows. Picking off targets where he could. The Corpus melted away; the hunters becoming the hunted.

Isolated, the Grineer caught a glimmer of movement in the shadows of the crates to his left. A bounding, hunched form. A quadruped drone, loping forward in bounding strides. The Hyena unit was an advanced war proxy; intended for hunting only the most difficult targets. Brakarr fit the bill.

The Hyena darted left and right; chased form pillar to post by stitching gunfire. Its shields flickered, wobbled; but it was quick. Much too quick. It closed the distance faster than Brakarr could track.

The Hyena slammed into the Grineer bodily; sending them tumbling over in a crashing heap.

Plasma incisors set beneath the Hyena's chin flared to life, inching closer and closer to his faceplate. It gnashed at him; the cutter flaring again and again. Its hooked claws ripped savage gouges deep into his side. Brakarr bellowed in pain. He fended the biting teeth one handed; groping for his side-arm. Isolde had it. She was too far away to help.

No matter. Brakarr was Grineer. No help was required.

The Sheev buzzed to life as he drew it from its sheath. Part machete, part welding torch; it doubled as everything from an entrenchment tool to a field-tin opener. Brakarr added drone-dismantling to the list.

He slammed it up through the base of the Hyena's chin. The proxy didn't stop; it continued to bite and thrash at him. Again and again he stabbed it. The Hyena squealed in agony as sparks flew and cables severed; squirting coolant. The weight on him slackened. The Grineer threw his weight to one side, rolling atop the addled drone. He left the Sheev buried in its central processing core as he took its head in a firm grip. With a roar he tore it clean off with his bare hands; bellowing as he bashed it against the steel floor again and again. The optical lenses on its face dented and cracked, then burst entirely. Circuits spilled like broken teeth.

The Hyena's thrashing ground to a mewling halt; its legs locked in a rictus flinch.

Brakarr retrieved his Sheev with a grunt, before casting the Hyena's severed head aside with a snarl. It clanked and rolled away in the shadows, forgotten. Then he collapsed.

Parson-Luk found him, sprawled beside the headless Hyena; surrounded by a carpet of empty shell casings and fallen Corpus soldiers.

Parson-Luk rolled the Grineer onto his back. Blood and oily coolant leaked freely from deep puncture wounds dimpled throughout his plating. His breathing was laboured; his lungs rattled with excess fluid.

"Eh Brakarr. You still with me big guy?"

The Grineer waved him away, wheezing. He tried to get up, slipped in his own fluids; then settled back, exhausted.

Parson-Luk fussed over him, mopping at the various leaks seeping from the depths of the Grineer's chassis. There was more oil than blood. The hunter looked about desperately for help.

Isolde was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh sure. Just _carry_ the Grineer." The Ostron shook his head. "C'mon now. _Up_ we go."

Brakarr snarled in pain as the hunter helped him back up. They limped away from the combat area; dripping blood and oil with every hobbled step.

"I tell you now, Big Guy." Parson-Luk shook his head ruefully. "This is no way to make a living."

* * *

Vern fired right as Eythan Dax charged. The Dax had preternatural speed, but Vern was no slouch either. Shields sparked, the sword sang.

The Hek caught the sword thrust; biting clean through the shotgun's housing. The sword caught, holding the hunter and the Dax face to fac. Vern smashed his forehead into the Dax's nose, knocking him back. Then the Lex was in his hands, barking. The sword flashed, turning shots left and right.

Vern didn't blink. A second Lex was in his hand; the servos embedded throughout his arms synching with the targeting software in his eyes. The hailstorm of shots drove the Dax further and further back. Eventually one got through; catching the Dax in the shoulder and spinning him off his feet.

Or not; as the Dax's twisting fall became a strike. His foot lashed out; an acrobatic high-sweep that snapped one of the Lex's clean apart. Vern backpedalled as the Dax flooded toward him; fists whistling.

The other Lex was dry. Vern holstered it and met the other man's assault hand to hand. The Dax struck like water; bending flowing strikes and snapping punches with kicks in a storm of blows that changed stance and rhythm with alarming speed. Vern's approach was more simple but no less brutal; a practiced pugilist and a grappler; with a degree of precision honed from a lifetime of fighting.

The bounty hunter surprised the Dax on occasion. A snapping punch or biting counter-jab; a spinning elbow or a throw that became a counter-throw, slamming the Dax into the ground. But the golden warrior showed no signs of fatigue, or slowing. He simply pressed on; recovering, relentless. Every time Vern caught one of the Dax's blows head one, the room swam. It was like being mule kicked by an Eidolon.

Vern swiftly backpedalled, snapping a new magazine into his Lex and opening up once more, lighting quick. By the third squeeze of the trigger the gun was already pointed at the ceiling, wrestled upwards in the Dax's vice-like grip. Blood dribbled down the Dax's golden arms; where one or two of the rounds had clearly found their mark beneath the plating. Whether he felt pain or not as he stared into Vern's eyes, it was impossible to tell.

The Dax spied the hole in Vern's forearm, left by an Exchange Agent's knife hours before. He held Vern's hands aloft one handed. The other snapped out and took a grip around his opponent's fore-arm. Eythan Dax dug a thumb into it the hole. Applied the tiniest degree of pressure.

Vern's cybernetic hand sprang open. His lips drew back in a howl. The Lex slipped from his grip, skittering across the floor. Eythan Dax swung the bounty hunter and bashed him through a set of shelving; scattering tinkling components noisily in his wake. Then he tossed the bounty hunter across the room with a contemptuous snarl.

The bounty hunter dropped into a smooth roll, coming to his feet; a blade in his hands. A snap kick sent it spinning from his grasp.

Vern had hunted all manner of creatures; had killed just about everything there was to kill across the known span of the Solar Rail. A rogue Jackal walker on the surface of Europa, its IFF code broken. A Grineer Nox; dribbling toxin from every vent. Vern was the most successful hunter the Exchange had ever seen. Ruthless in his ambition, merciless in his pursuit of the task at hand.

He used every tool at his disposal. Grenades and knives; rifles and bayonets. His own bare hands, when necessary.

One thing became clear to Terrenus Vern; right as Eythan Dax's next throw sent him crashing through an advertisement hoarding in a descending shower of sparks and glass.

This was one hunt he may not survive.


	37. Interlude: A Private Conversation

_"Consider the longevity of our Empire. The expanse of the Rail. We have existed for centuries, constrained only by the limits of our collective imagination._

 _Yet there is a frontier unconquered. These survivors of the Zariman, with their fitful devil minds; they swim in the shadows of the Void, unmoved by its currents; unswayed by its eddies. A Gift? A Curse?_

 _Both of these things, and so much more._

 _A chance to plum the endless depths; to be stared at by the howling Void, and stare right back._

 _An Opportunity."_

 _-_ Unknown conversation, Vitruvian 4-9 (Recovery Site Redacted)

* * *

 _Then._

The Tenno return to The House Eternal. To re-arm, to reflect. To kneel before their Master, and give thanks for the many gifts bestowed upon them. The singers and bards are gone now. The halls are forlorn and silent. Even the cloisters are barren. Only the most trusted Dax remain. They linger behind, hands twitching by their swords; pacing, frustrated. They long to join their comrades on the front.

The Lorists and Archimedeans stand aloof from the Tenno, content to observe but never interact. The children are placed in turn in the Somatic Link; an unnecessary Cradle. These Tenno Dream no longer.

The Tenno endure the tests, cold and unblinking.

The war is not unfelt; by Sohren most of all. He has grown exacting; harsh, distant. He has seen too many Dax fall before his eyes; good warriors expended in the endless furnace of the War. His father had been one of the Golden Few, as his father before him. As a child he had dreamed of becoming Dax, brave and loyal and true. Yet the Void has denied him this dream; providing an all new nightmare in its stead.

He will never follow in his Father's legacy. Instead, he is damned to surpass it.

Kael and Isolde follow him dutifully; Kael, as cold and precise as the blade he wields; Isolde, colder still. Her songs never lift the halls, nor do her smiles light the room. Sara is the opposite; she hides her despair behind caustic smiles and brittle laughs, but the others have seen her wipe her eyes; in those unguarded moments.

Still, they remain strong. The mission is everything to them.

It is the decree of The House Eternal. The Empire will endure.

Doric watches them all; concern ever-mounting.

They are told little as to how the war truly progresses. Doric has to piece it together from unguarded asides from the strategos that hurry from one briefing to the next. A patchwork picture is formed.

Other Tenno operate under the will of the Executors; deploying from staging areas far removed from the House Eternal. Doric reads of their deeds in the Lua despatches; of heroic sacrifices and desperate victories, hard-fought. He imagines his own Cell fighting alongside them; comparing their abilities with their brothers and sisters further afield.

This question above all others vexes him. _Why have they been separated?_

* * *

Fire and fury. The Dax hurl themselves upon the Foe. Golden bodies fall; rendered scorched husks, blackened by streaming energy.

Steel and swords clash. Cutting beams hiss. The Destroyer's Children sing their deadly song.

Sohren is up ahead. He carves a path through the foe, Kael at his side. Isolde and Sara hold the flank; pressing ever onward. Screaming hellfire and robotic wails fill the air.

It is up to Doric to hold the rear guard. He is the largest, the strongest. A rock, upon which the surge of all counter-attacks break. He marshals the forces at his command; the pitiful remaining Dax fanning out; their blades high, eyes searching the heavens. Another attack could come at any moment.

There is a lull in the carnage, as Sohren and the others drive deep into the temple. Doric holds the annex with the rearguard.

Doric stands tall, marveling at the ruined majesty of the ruins around him.

In truth they were late. The Dax had assaulted the Citadel an hour before the Cell's arrival. The annex is a vaulted place; once colonnaded and proud with splendour. Now it is a charnel house. Broken Sentient and scorched bones splinter underfoot.

A hand grasps his ankle; slick blood spattering cold stone. Doric looks down.

Death was a mercy to this warrior. The body the hand is attached to is little more than a torso. The skin of the face has been burnt away on one side; showing white bone, teeth and a single staring eye in anatomical cross-section. Doric frowns, leaning down; peering closer.

The hand is known to him. After a moment, Doric cries out in horrified recognition.

It is Trainer.

He is surrounded by fallen Sentient. Their chassis broken, their Oro crushed with a destructive totality that shocks even the Tenno. Trainer's pistol is empty, his sword broken in two. The riven hilt has been driven clean through another of the infernal machines, pinning it to floor beside him.

Trainer's other eye blinks. His lips gasp for air with an agonised croak.

He is still alive.

Doric witnesses a level of willpower than transcends the superhuman. Trainer reaches up with his remaining hand and beckons Doric closer.

The ancient Dax strangles out the words, every syllable in agony.

"Beware the House. Beware its Lies."

Doric blinks.

Trainer is gone.

Doric never learns his true name.

* * *

Months pass. There has been a breakthrough. A counter-attack on the front has proven wildly successful. The Sentient advance has stalled. There is a reprieve.

The mood amongst the House Eternal is buoyant. Courtiers return, in select amounts. Music fills the halls, once more; but it is hesitant; tempered by an unspoken tension.

There is no sign of Lord Septimus. The Tenno are ordered to remain as they are.

The Tenno languish in a state of limbo; restless.

The Tenno are forbidden from seeing their Lord. They are forbidden from the front. They are to remain here, and here alone; until instructed otherwise. Left to their own devices, they roam the halls; enjoying an unusual degree of freedom, albeit within the carefully supervised confines of The House Eternal.

The other Tenno notice the change in mood, but know better than to comment on it. Sara becomes less sullen, glad to be away from the death and destruction, if only for a brief respite. She spends her time with her Warframe and the artificers; decorating its elaborate chassis, humming to herself sadly.

Trainer's death has weighed heavily upon them all.

Grief is expressed in many ways. Kael and Sohren train, blade brothers now; readying themselves for the next phase of the endless war, that must surely come. Skana after skana is called for. A crowd of Dax gathers in size with each progressive contest, marvelling at their skill. They will honour their mentor's memory the only way they can.

Doric spends his time in the library, alone. Books are not forbidden to them, and he takes comfort in them when he can.

The room is a vast place, panelled with Earthen wood and lined with cool stone; an unusual affectation for a space of Orokin design. Row after row of mouldering books line the shelves; entirely at odds with the sweeping alabaster and gilded archways of the halls beyond. A vaulted cloister runs around the perimeter of the shelves; serving as an elevated viewing gallery of the priceless relics.

Many of the tomes are in languages long since forgotten. Doric has been through many of them over the years, has translated what few he could. He has not come here to read, not today.

He sits at the games tables; set apart in an open space in the heart of the library.

He repeats Trainer's words in his mind, over and over.

 _Beware the House. Beware its Lies._

He dares not share the warning with the others. He ponders over the Komi board, lost in thought. Beside it are several other games; each more complex than the last. He plays himself regularly; articulating strategy in multiple languages under countless rule sets. He plays each of the boards in unison. It helps him think. It calms his frenzied mind.

Doric is broken from his reverie by the scrape of a chair against the stone floor.

Isolde sits across from him; fingers laced together under her chin. She studies the Komi board, then regards Doric with those startlingly violet eyes. Her book of poems sits on the table beside her, forgotten.

"Let's play."

Doric looks up, his dark face set and solemn. She has changed much from the girl that used to sing joyfully in the golden halls of the Zariman. Cold now, aloof. Focused on the mission, above all else. Still, her presence in the library is not unusual. Often she can be seen in one of the far alcoves, a frown upon her face as she devours yet another history or poem.

She has never shown an interest in the games before.

"It's a simple game. You'll grow tired of it."

"Try me."

They play. Doric blinks. It proves more difficult to best her than first anticipated.

"Again." She says, at once.

They play again. The result is closer still.

"Once more."

Doric finds himself frowning at the board, wondering quite how she managed to outmaneuver him so.

"Another game." Her attention is on the next board. "Something more complicated."

Her voice speaks in his mind.

 _Don't react. We are being watched._

Doric's face remains still as he draws her attention to a far more elaborate set on the next table.

It is a three-tiered board, with a maddening variety of many-sided dice. The pieces range from the lowliest foot soldier to the most elegant star-galleon. The value of each piece is defined by the material they are crafted from; in descending value: ivory, steel, wood.

The game is antiquated, long out of favour with the Golden Lords. Nevertheless, Doric has learned its rules, the careful steps that can be taken. He explains to Isolde the subtleties, the strategies and counter-moves necessary to win the game. Even then, his introduction is painfully high level.

"The Golden Lords call it _Ars Bellica_ , though it is often shortened to simply _Bellica_. Three boards: space, ground, tower. One must master all three boards before pressing their opponent's tower."

He illustrates the rules in a practice game: he against himself; demonstrating the nuances from one board to the next.

All the while, the Dax watches them. Doric spies him in return; reflected by the polished ivory of the galleon shows to Isolde.

The Dax is one of the proudest members of Trainer's flock. Strong-willed, ambitious; a peerless fighter, by the exacting standards of the Dax soldiery. Vehemently loyal to the House Eternal. The gaps in the ranks have afforded him a meteoric rise in station.

With Trainer's death, he now stands as castellan to Lord Septimus.

This promotion is behind much of the change within The House Eternal. It is his men who deny the Tenno access to the High Archimedean; his men who watch their every move with a thinly disguised animosity.

His name is Eythan.

"Focus on the pieces." Doric says softly, as Isolde scrutinises the board. They are playing their first proper game.

No more Void Talk. The Dax lack the command of the Void, but are not without a sensitivity. Their prolonged proximity to the Orokin has granted them as much.

Different avenues of communication are required.

A new language is developed, leveraging the complexity of the game to the Tenno's favour. A form of spy-craft, devious even by Doric's standards. Isolde catches on quickly.

The complexity of the game is such that pieces can interchange and flow with alarming speed. Doric establishes the baseline structure of their impromptu language; defined by strikes, feints and retreats. They are forced to pantomime reactions of perceived victories and defeats; under the ever watchful eye of the Dax across the library floor.

The true conversation is conducted through the _Bellis_ Board. Isolde opens with a daring strike:

 _Lord Septimus is ill._

 _I am aware. The servants speak of it often._

Isolde's cruisers then batter one of Doric's forward positions.

 _Then you know there is to be a ceremony. A coronation, of sorts._

Doric swiftly counters; his own forces weathering the initial storm and mounting a reprisal strike of their own.

 _A successor?_

 _I am not certain. The servants say little, and the Dax even less._

 _Do we know when this ceremony is to take place?_

Isolde frowns as Doric makes a blinding series of adjustments to his forward line.

She rallies her forces as best she can, brow knitted:

 _No. The cards have spoken to me, but their words make little sense. Just a single word, over and over._

Doric holds his line, bowing his head to Isolde:

 _Show me._

Isolde leaves her flank open with a piteously exposed counter-pushed; a clear signal that their conversation is over. Doric exploits the gap ruthlessly.

Isolde pushes herself up from the table with a defeated sigh.

"I had hope to best you, but I have a lot to learn, it seems. Next time, Doric."

The Tenno rise to their feet, exchanging a bow.

She turns on her heels and departs, leaving him alone at the table.

She has left her book on the table: _Great Minds and Poems of the Orokin Third Age_. It is her favourite.

Doric spares a glance at the polished ivory pieces. The Dax is gone.

He does not open the book until he is safely lost amongst the endless shelves.

A single tarot card is inside. The symbol is known to him.

It is the Ouroboros; the Endless Serpent.

Its meanings are many and varied. Its origins are in alchemy; the snake that eats its own tail, and is then eaten in turn. An infinity loop; an endless process that repeats itself, over and over.

Continuity.


	38. Chapter 38

" _War teaches in startling contrast. Heroism and cowardice. Our capacity for courage, against odds insurmountable. Of cruelty, meted out without the merest hesitation._

 _It teaches you friendship. Of ties that bond._

 _And when those same bonds are severed; pain..."_

\- Trainer, addressing the Tenno of The House Eternal.

* * *

A stray plasma round finally struck Doric from the sky. The starboard engine of his Archwing gave out; chugging smoke. Sending him into a wild corkscrewing tailspin straight into the deck.

Mirage twisted about, watching as the twisting shape descended into the midst of the Corpus army.

"Doric!" Sara cried.

The Archwing did not explode when it impacted. Instead, it punched clean through the skin of the Upper Tier, burying itself like a meteor. Corpus forces rushed over the cooling impact site; a churning sea of Moa, interspersed with the occasional Hyena hunter and scrambling crewman.

Something burst forth from the crater. A tumbling boulder. It ploughed through the swarm, flattening all in its path. Moas shrieked moments before they were buried beneath the descending wall of rock. The crowds backed away, self-preservation protocols kicking in and sending the Moa skidding in all directions, shrilling and bleating. All too late.

Atlas arose from the smoking ruins: proud and tall; streaming pieces of the Elytron harness as it fell away in ragged smoking chunks. A Hyena shrieked and pounced. Atlas turned its shimmering gaze upon it. The air warped and vibrated with arcane energy.

The Hyena froze in place; shivering as the lustre of its metallic sheen hardened and crackled; condensing to frozen rock.

Doric-as-Atlas shattered it with a single upper-cut. It burst in a thousand cascading pebbles.

Doric strode toward the ziggurat amidst the confusion. He paused. The Warframe was a lumbering titan, its mighty shoulders all but swallowing its neck. The Frame raised a single fist in the air. A salute to cherished comrades. A command all of its own.

A giant arose from the twisting dun smoke behind him. A single monstrous rock golem; a towering behemoth that quivered with primal rage. Parts of the shattered drones were infused in the rock. It was a ghastly, towering thing. It dwarfed even Atlas.

Atlas glanced back at it. It rumbled obediently.

Doric simply pointed at the ziggurat.

The golem brayed a challenge; surging forth into the Corpus army. Drones and bodies were smashed aside; tossed like ragdolls and broken articula as it charged headlong for the temple.

Atlas followed; crushing anyone who had the temerity to stand in his way.

Kael and Sara pounced; ripping towards their comrade with thinly disguised impatience. Blades sang and blood flew.

Caught on both sides, the Corpus on the ziggurat panicked; between a literal rock and a hard place.

* * *

Vern slapped a new mag home, dropping to one knee and snapping off shot after shot at the relentless Dax. Eythan advanced steadily; blade flashing. The gap between them shrank once more. Vern had no intention of getting cornered again.

Vern flicked a puck-shaped charge out behind him. It mag-locked to the wall; cheeping twice. Then it erupted with a flash; bringing the wall down in a chunking avalanche of descending masonry. The fire suppression system shivered to life; hosing them in a fine hissing mist.

Vern melted away into the twisting smoke, methodically reloading.

The Dax surged out of the fog before him; lighting quick. The Lex was slapped aside. A golden hand encased his throat once more. Lifted him clean off his feet.

Eythan Dax studied him coldly. His armour was scorched and pitted from where Vern's rounds had found their mark; embedded in the golden armour. Water dribbled freely down his sneering face.

"Impressive, for a _mercenary_." The golden warrior tilted his head with an avian curiosity. " A different era, you might have even made a worthy Dax..."

The squeeze on Vern's neck tightened.

"…such a pity."

"Gold's not my colour." Vern spat. He snatched at something on his belt.

The flashbang was not intended as a melee weapon. Even with all his enhancements, it deafened Vern as he slammed it into the side of the Dax's head. The two men separated; the golden warrior staggering; gauntleted hands clamped to his visor.

Vern's cybernetic eyes recovered far faster. Disorientated, eardrums bleeding; Vern saw his window. He took it.

The mercenary grabbed the nearest object to hand; a remote extinguisher canister. He swung it as a club. Metal met metal with a resounding hollow clang that pealed like a cathedral bell. Once, twice; a third time. The entire unit broke apart; spraying them both with foam. A chunk of the Dax's wide-brimmed helmet was fully dented inward. Miraculously, the Dax stayed on his feet.

Vern didn't hesitate. Discipline was everything. The takedown was an essential skill for any hand to hand practitioner. This was a man; a preternaturally strong and agile man; but a man nonetheless. The twisting throw put the golden warrior neatly over Vern's shoulder; slamming him into the ground. Then Vern was on him; his fists pulverising the Dax's face; again and again.

A golden hand clamped Vern's fist in place. There was a lance of searing, crushing pain as the wiring approximating a nervous system overloaded, then crumbled altogether. A numbness took over. Vern snarled and flashed in the elbow of his other arm. Eythan's nose broke with an audible crunch. The grip released. Vern continued striking with both hands. Anything to inflict damage. Vern would rip the man's damned throat out with his teeth if he had to.

Eythan Dax was not lacking in grappling skill. His legs locked around Vern's midsection; locking tightly. With a rolling twist the Dax muscled Vern aside. The two rolled apart; both blooded, both gasping for breath.

The Dax pointed his blade at Terrenus Vern. Blood coursed from the ruin of the Dax's nose. His cheek had burst, and a spiderweb of cracks coursed their way across the surface of his gilded visor. There were no lofty threats or grandiose statements, not anymore.

Only ruthless intent; simmering rage.

Vern had little left than a humble combat knife. He settled low into a knife-fighters stance; the blade pointed downward. Unflinching, ever the patient hunter.

His broken hand drifted to the small of his back; to the last remaining tool in his arsenal. Ruined fingers twitched feebly as they closed around it.

A single grenade; small and potent.

* * *

Kelpo walked the _Severance Package_ , making his rounds with Stren. He had stepped into the role of XO by dint of his association with the Tenno, but word of his commitment during the boarding action had spread quickly. The men and women of the _Severance_ nodded at him as he passed, looking up from their welding kits and firing ports. Stren explained the nuances as they went; pointing out structural weaknesses and firing arcs of the various weapons; and their various crews. Making introductions where needed. Should anything happen to him, Stren wanted the lad briefed on how the ship worked.

Blood coated the walls where various munitions had pierced the outer hull; fully vaporising those unfortunate enough to be caught beyond. The crew had done their best, patching the hull as best they could; washing the decks down with soapy water, but these wounds were deep. They would scar, or else damn the barge entirely.

Loading crews bustled to and fro, lumping heavy panniers of munitions for the Grineer-based weaponry. Cells were locked down; activated with a keening hum. Even the boarding javelins were reloaded; their securing winches cinched tight and locked down.

Engineering managed to bring the shield system back online within something approaching normal levels, but even then it was painfully fragile; a jury-rigged fix that would either save the ship from external fire or else blow it up entirely.

Battered, scarred and bruised; the _Severance Package_ made ready with its sister ship; poised on the edge of the Upper Tier.

In the distance, the war for the ziggurat raged on, oblivious to the two ragged ships on the horizon.

* * *

The elevator droned ever downward. The Mid-Tier was choked with bodies. The Low Tier was all but abandoned, as they descended deeper into the colony. The Watch had been severely outnumbered and surprised, but they had beam weapons and tight firing channels. The price paid to subdue them had been savagely high.

It was perhaps merciful that the Solaris' view was often blocked by the vast infrastructure that supported the central elevator.

Prospect 141 was in a state of open anarchy. The rebellion had came and went. Now the downtrodden freely looted the streets; ravenously picking over the salubrious areas the Watch had so sternly denied them all these years.

The only place left alone was the Upper Tier. Those few that dared to venture there saw the fire and flames on the horizon, and retreated; knowing there were some chances not worth taking. Some places no mortal could hope to witness, and survive. Stories of the fires on the horizon; of the endless screams and raging lighting would live on, in whispered stories passed on from generation to generation.

The surviving Solaris bore witness to a colony surely damned by their actions. The Board would not suffer such impudence lightly. Nef Anyo in particular would deem the rebellion a personal insult. Examples would be made.

Neera looked at the brawny cutter, Sparks. He showed no emotion to speak of (and had no means of expressing it, even if he wanted to). But he could sense the despair radiating from her. The brutish welder rested a hand on her shoulder, gave it a supportive squeeze.

"It's alright, lovey." Sparks' face lit up in time with his words, "The Board won't scrap the colony. Too much investment in the site. Frozen Sector's lucrative, too lucrative even for a second rate colony like this. It'll be tough on these people, but they'll survive. As they've always done."

Neera studied him, her face set. Her eyes were red rimmed, but clear. She had a job to do.

"You're sure?" she asked.

"Course they will. Board need the labour pool, don't they?" Sparks nodded at the Data Mass clutched in her hands. "Important thing is we get that thing there clear. Into safe hands. Make it all worthwhile, eh?"

The lights above shivered once more. More dust sifted down the lift shaft. The Solaris looked up as one.

Sparks chuckled darkly as they descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of the colony.

"Still, all things considered; reckon the Board 'ave their hands full right about now."

* * *

The halls beneath the Northern Landing Pad lay in ruin. A great and terrible battle had taken place here; waged between two men hell bent on killing each other. No quarter had been sought, and none was given. There were no witnesses to it, and long after the Battle for Prospect 141 ended, it would be forgotten; just another destructive curiosity to be picked over by the salvage teams that would surely follow.

Its aftermath would stay with Isolde for the rest of her days.

She followed the trail of shell casings, broken furniture and dents in the walls that marked the path of Vern and Eythan's duel. She paused by a slick of blood on the wall. A hand print.

Bullet holes coated the walls. She paused. A Hikou throwing star was wedged in the wall at head height. She stepped carefully past it; through yet another hole in the wall. She found one Lex; discarded, smashed into component pieces. Then another; top slide locked back; snapped empty. There were starbursts of shrapnel and burn marks that scorched unlikely places on the ceiling.

A trail of emptied shelves and discarded fall back weapons; secreted and improvised, that spoke of a struggle fought to the most bitter inch.

It was not one sided. More than once she saw gold flecks on the wall; where a body had been thrown or battered into a wall. The sprinkler systems sluiced down from above; soaking her. A hundred small fires competed with the emergency lighting; rendering the machine shop beyond a bitter crimson.

Isolde gasped. She floated forwards on numb feet.

Vern sprawled in the middle of the floor. Pinned in his chest was the golden nikana; buried to the hilt.

There was no sign of the Dax. It was a message.

Yet another challenge, taunting her. Goading her.

Isolde tore her hooded cloak free as her knees splashed to the floor beside him. She did her best to stem the bleeding; swabbing with the cloak. She had no idea where to start. Vern was more cybernetic than flesh, and even then he was a bloodied wreck.

His hand was little more than a mechanical stump; ground to pieces from where Vern had all but demolished it against his opponent's face. Splinters of golden armour were embedded in Vern's ruined fist.

Vern groaned a chuckle when he sensed Isolde was there.

"He bled. Oh I promise you, he bled."

Vern's goggles were missing. He groped about with his one remaining hand, which trembled with a palsied quake as he felt her burning cheek. With a start, she realised he was blind.

"EMP Grenade. One of my own." Vern turned his head to one side, as blood pulsed out of his mouth freely. He coughed, spat. "Was out of options."

He stirred, went to move. He hissed; pinned in place. His webbing, normally festooned with throwing knives and explosives, was entirely barren. Her hood was soaked in blood now.

"Don't move…" Isolde despised how weak she sounded, the helplessness in her voice, "I'll get help…"

Terrenus Vern chuckled at that.

"Don't get soft on me now, girl." He felt up toward her face, wiping her burning cheek, chuckling. "This was always gonna happen, sooner or later. Part of the job description. Profitable lives, not long ones."

Isolde was shaking now. Not in fear, or sorrow. Something more primal; dormant since the Old War. She swiped her cheeks, unable to stop the streaming tears.

"I'll bury him." Isolde swore, her voice low and venomous. "By the Void and all that's holy I'll _bury_ him."

Vern smiled slightly at that.

"That's my girl."

Then he settled his head back, eyes closed. His voice was little more than a rasp.

"A thousand contracts. Endless hunts. Creatures and beasts. Good men, evil men."

Vern's face was set, at peace. He shuddered, swallowing heavily.

"Never once fought for myself, though. Felt different. Felt right."

Terrenus Vern coughed, once. His good hand wiped at Isolde's streaming face affectionately.

"Be seeing you, kid."

Then his hand fell limp.

Eventually, Isolde rose to her feet; still clutching the bloodied rags in her hands. She drew the nikana from Vern's body cleanly; cleansing it with a measured swipe of the blade.

She tilted her head back, eyes closed. Felt the stream of the sprinklers wash over her; a cleansing wave that did little to quench the rising inferno within.

With singular will, the Tenno reached out with the Void, to where a silent ship lay in orbit; long forgotten.

And broke an ancient promise to herself.


	39. Chapter 39

" _And who are We_

 _Those that should be alone?_

 _Without songs or stories;_

 _A Hearth of our own?_

 _The Unum's Chosen_

 _A Many from a Few_

 _A Clade without Kinsmen_

 _With the Plains for a View…"_

excerpt from Ostron Poem, source unknown

* * *

In a utility depot near the Northern Landing Pad, Parson-Luk's hands worked quickly.

He was not a technologically advanced man, but understood the necessity of field repairs. A weakness in the snare could let slip even the smallest prey. For all the primitive trappings of the hunter, Parson-Luk possessed a keen mind that belied his outward savagery. The welder in his hands sealed the largest of the gouges in the Grineer's war rig. The workmanship was amateur, but tidy.

His needlework was better; careful stitches holding shut the more angry lacerations in the Grineer's weeping side.

This was not unexpected.

He had been a Fisherman, before he was a Hunter.

Brakarr was gene-kin. His mortal enemy. They had met on the Plains. Had damned near killed each other, at first. Parson-Luk had been a young hunter then. Proud, full of piss and fire, as all young hunters are. The Grineer threatened his home. They threatened Cetus, and the Unum that watched over them all.

Killing them was more than sport. It was an obsession. Brakarr's unit had been yet another advance recon force, striking out in the days long before the Grineer established a foothold right on the Ostron's very doorstep. They were in an unfamiliar land, then; undocumented.

His territory, not theirs. The Ostron had stalked them one by one; his looted Grinlok rifle puncturing armoured shells and finding the soft clone-flesh beneath. Until there were only two of them left: the giant and the hunter.

The duel had lasted fully a full day and night. Brakarr his munitions exhausted, Parson-Luk, scared out of his wits by the relentless giant that simply would not die. Eventually the tracker's knowledge of the terrain had won out: the Grineer found itself tangled in a charc-snare at the base of a pit; beset on all sides by wild kubrow, hellbent on defending their nest. Frenzied with pain, the Grineer bawled in anguished fury as they pounced.

Parson-Luk had watched from afar as the giant smash the feral hounds down one by one. For all his rage, they had numbers; and could sense death. They chased it with open jaws.

Parson-Luk watched the Grineer fight to the last; a buzzing knife in its hands; all but blinded by the shimmering charge of the fizzling charc-snare. As the fight drew on and on, a curious feeling took over. Pity, tinged with begrudging admiration. The Grinlock sounded three times.

The first shot took the Kubrow alpha in the throat. The second and third felled the other in quick succession. The rest of the pack fled; yelping. They knew the sound of Parson-Luk's rifle all too well. The Grineer had scrambled to its feet, finally freed of that damned net. It rounded about in confusion. It spied Parson-Luk downwind on the hill, the rifle in his hands.

The Grineer was caught dead to rights in the open; a sitting Condroc.

The Ostron had tapped his brow in salute, turned and left.

* * *

The Grineer walked him through the repairs. Pointing at this feed tube or leaking pipe. His breath was laboured, but stable. Parson-Luk shushed the Grineer as he fussed over yet another stitch.

* * *

Their paths crossed again a month later. A hunt had gone wrong.

It was a silly thing; a moment of absentmindedness that should have cost the Ostron his life.

There was no moon in the sky, back then. But that evening the Void light was beautiful and shimmering. It twisted on the horizon; glinting off the lake beside him; distracting him. The hunter's right ankle went straight down into a Kuaka burrow; twisting badly. He hissed in pain; trapped. He cursed his clumsy stupidity.

The pool of water beside him began to shimmer and bubble. Arcane tendrils of light rose into the air above, twisting fragments of starlight from the ancient past. Terror gripped him like a vice.

An Eidolon; a shambling husk of Sentient debris. Dull and witless; so easily avoided. So capable of immense destruction. Parson-Luk tried to pull his leg free, with ever-mounting panic. It was firmly wedged.

He began to frantically dig; clawing at the earth with chipped fingernails.

An immense pair of mechanical hands gripped him by the shoulders. Parson-Luk yelped in surprise.

The giant Grineer hauled him free with a single mighty tug. It threw him over one shoulder, and began sprinting in the opposite direction of the lumbering shape that arose from the boiling water.

They broke bread that night in a cave overlooking the Eidolon that raged and meandered across the plains, its plaintive wails splitting the night's air, haunting them as it shook the ground with each ponderous step. The meal was entirely provided by Parson-Luk's own rations.

Parson-Luk had little choice in the matter; his ankle was a swollen wreck.

Trapped as he was, through narrowed eyes and thinly veiled suspicion, the hunter established a rudimentary level of understanding. A dialogue began. The Grineer watching him with those rheumy eyes; orange like hot coals.

Slowly, Parson-Luk learned the Grineer's story. It had gone feral. It had no weapon, and was proving a miserable hunter. It was starving; had been living off what slow witted creatures it could hastily blunder upon in a moment of weakness.

Parson Luk's ankle healed quickly; enough that he could hobble about; demonstrating the basics of quiet movement. It looked ridiculous, to see the lumbering beast mimick his own movements. Yet the Grineer seemed sincere in his desire to learn.

He learned its name was Brakarr. That it was something called a Bombard.

At first Parson-Luk told himself that his tutelage was out of necessity. Keep the beast happy, or get his head caved in. Different rationalisations took shape. It was a priceless opportunity to observe his enemy; to see how they quickly they learned, how swiftly they could adapt in adverse circumstances. And yet there was something more. A kind of respect, from one survivor to another.

The teachings provided Parson-Luk with a satisfaction he had not expected; his lessons became more technical in their instruction.

Parson-Luk would learn later that Brakarr was a defect. An Aberrant, to borrow the Grineer's insistent use of the term. There were other Aberrant; some intellectually stunted, others still entirely pacifist. Most were exterminated as soon as they were detected, by decree of the Queens that ruled their Empire with an iron fist. But Brakarr was intelligent; knew how to toe the Empire's line.

He was Grineer, Bombard class; blessed with enormous physical strength; but precious few skills beyond brute power and an eagerness to use it. He served because it was expected of him. He fought because that is simply what Grineer did.

This was an opportunity to become something more. Brakarr seized it.

The Ostron taught the Grineer basics of field craft, of stalking and camouflage. Partly so the brute could feed them, and partly to hide him from the Grineer patrols that routinely swept these hills. Days passed, the Grineer returning to their meagre shelter with a poorly speared fish, or a half starved Kuaka.

As time progressed, the Grineer's yield steadily improved. He would appear back at the cave, a brace of fish dangling on the simple lines the hunter had prepared. Parson-Luk would then teach him how to dress the fish, or the most effective means of flaying the small rodents and game the Grineer managed to wrangle in its solitary adventures.

By the fourth day, Parson-Luk was mobile enough to return to Cetus. He smiled at the Grineer, shaking his head. The Grineer had fashioned himself a cloak of Condroc feathers, that did little to hide the scabbed armour plating beneath. He looked ridiculous, but the hunter felt proud of him despite himself.

The Hunter bade the Bombard farewell, clapping him on the shoulder; setting off for Cetus with a long stick for support. He returned to his home, where his daughter awaited him. His wife had been lost seasons past, and he was needed by the fires of the hearth. He often thought of his unlikely friend, as he listened to the elders by the fire preach of the importance of friendship; of the ties that bound.

It was with a tinge of disappointment that Parson-Luk returned to the cave, some three weeks later, to find it abandoned. The fire had been put out, as if in a tremendous hurry. The bones had been piled neatly in a corner. Stacked in a heap, for use in a broth later. Just as he instructed.

The Ostron shook his head, bemused but surprised at how saddened he felt. He had hoped to see the shambling lummox again.

The Karak rifle clacked behind him, startlingly loud in the confines of the cave. The Tusk Lancer barked something harsh and unintelligible through its filtered mask. Two more of its comrades emerged from deeper in the cave; weapons trained. They were dressed in camouflaged livery; had used the soot from the fire to dull the edges of their armour, masking its shine.

An ambush then, Parson-Luk was livid with himself.

Of course the Grineer had betrayed him. A Hyekka didn't stop being dangerous just because you fed it once in a while. He cursed himself for his naivety.

Brakarr emerged from the shadows with a rock in his hands. The only sound made was the crunch of Grineer battle-plate as he stove in the skull of one of the Grineer troopers. Then the rifle was in Brakarr's hands. Brakarr unloaded on fully automatic as he charged with a bellowing roar. The Grineer scout team panicked, diving in all directions; hard rounds whickering and spanking off their armour as he closed the gap.

Then the brute was upon them. These were field troopers; rangy scouts. There was no physical contest. Armour dented. Bones splintered.

"Parson-Lurk!" Brakarr beamed up at the stricken Ostron hunter, caked in gore. The cave was littered with fallen Grineer. "Brakarr lurk too!"

* * *

Parson-Luk smiled at the memory, as he finished the last seal on the Grineer's battered chassis. That had been over a decade ago. Since then his daughter had taken ill, as her mother before her. Medicine was required. Expensive medicine. That meant contract work. That meant off world.

Brakarr had stubbornly followed him every step of the way since.

The Ostron made a pact with himself, as he worked on the next stitch. His hands were caked in gore and spilled coolant.

They would see this hunt through, together.

They would see the Plains again.


	40. Chapter 40

"… _and from that pain, rage."_

\- Trainer, addressing the Tenno of the House Eternal

* * *

The shelves were cluttered with all manner of bric-a-brac. A wide variety of Moa heads were mounted on the wall, arrayed and displayed less like a trophy cabinet, and more like an accessories store. From patrol units to simple janitorial support. This was the part of the Upper Tier unseen by the wealthy and proud. The necessary storehouse that kept their machines running, and their perfect lives functioning smoothly without interruption. Beneath the display cases were boxes of spare parts: a butcher's array of synthetic limbs and cybernetic chassis. There were small boxes of joints, focusing lenses; rotator servos big and small; all manner of odds and ends.

Enough to save Brakarr's life. Parson-Luk was almost finished with his repairs when the boxes began to rattle in unison. Then the entire shop began vibrate. Cybernetic limbs fell from their hooks, clattering against the floor. Parson-Luk looked up from the task at hand. The Ostron's ear twitched; his nostrils sniffing.

A ship, hovering at low altitude.

Parson-Luk rose to his feet, a wicked recurve dagger in his hand. He left Brakarr slumped by the wall, hidden behind a large shape covered by a tarpaulin.

The door hissed open.

A ship hung overhead. Parson-Luk marvelled at its unusual organic curvature. He had seen its kind come and go from Cetus over the years. Had more recently seen one buried beneath the ice, a hole shot clean through its bow. A Liset, Isolde had called it once; when she first invited them aboard.

This one was intact. It was familiar; dressed in red and black. It hovered in the air by the Northern Landing Pad. A metal figure dropped from its belly, automatically finding its feet. It rose to stand where it was, its head dipped; inert.

Isolde stepped from the shadows; stripped to her simple body-glove. Her eyes were red rimmed, baleful slits. Bruises studded her exposed arms. A golden nikana was clamped in her hand; a bloodied crimson rag in the other. The buildings behind her were ablaze. An ugly pillar of coiling smoke rose in the air before the ribbed Orokin barge that shimmered through the haze.

Parson-Luk had seen her Warframe before, in those unguarded moments where Isolde had allowed them aboard, to sit with her and work on improving Brakarr's augmentations.

For Brakarr it was life-saving. Grineer lives were short-lived; could only be prolonged through extensive and intrusive cyberization. For Isolde it was practice. Her Warframe's skin had been extensively modified; stripped and rebuilt with every successive rework of Brakarr's systems. The Grineer design influence shone heavily, tempered by the Tenno's more streamlined aesthetic.

Gone was the Orokin finery. It was dressed in jet black; complimented by dark strokes of crimson. A single bulky ocular lens was mounted over where one eye should have been. The face itself was an impassive mask of smooth crimson metal. A hooded red cloak flitted in the breeze.

It was a keep sake, a trophy from an era long forgotten. Never once had Parson-Luk seen it removed from its display stand in the heart of the Liset.

Even in the direst circumstances she had refused to deploy it; preferring instead to rely solely on her Void tricks and her own brand of lethal improvisation. Vern had never questioned it, never forced the issue. The Grineer and the Ostron similarly respected her wishes. She was dangerous enough without it.

Isolde ignored Parson-Luk as he approached, cautiously. Her focus was entirely on the metal figure before her. She tied the bloodied rag around its waist. Parson-Luk recognised her cloak; frayed and charred as it was. It was soaked with blood, that still dripped and pattered on the deck at her feet. The blood was not her own.

A profound sense of dread overtook the Ostron hunter. She sensed him, finally acknowledged him with the briefest of nods.

"It's funny." She smiled a brittle smile at the floor. "When the war ended, I entered my great sleep. I made a promise. That when I awoke and the world had forgotten the Old War, I would live for myself.

She cinched the knot tighter.

"That I would never wear their puppet again."

She spoke softly, running her finger along the sleek lines of its arm. Her finger glowed as she traced it down the forearm; all but caressing it. The Warframe's fingers twitched.

"By rights I should have buried it, left it alone. Instead it has followed me wherever I've gone; a box on a shelf. Forgotten, but never cast aside."

She looked at Parson-Luk.

"Perhaps it was weakness. Sentimentality of some kind." She looked up at the Warframe's faceplate.

"I saw it as a burden." The loathing in her voice was palpable as her eyes narrowed. "I was a fool."

"I know better now. This is who I am. The weapon I was meant to be."

"What happened, Surah?" he asked hesitantly.

Isolde closed her eyes. Her grip on the nikana tightened. Tears pulsed down her cheeks. She sobbed.

Vern then. It defied belief.

The bones of Parson-Luk's necklace jangled as he swamped her with a hug. She flinched at the unfamiliar affection, arms rigid by her sides. He was struck by just how small she was. For a moment he thought of his own daughter. His throat tightened.

Then she was gone; fading into the Void itself. The nikana clanged to the deck.

The Warframe's head rose up. The ocular lens projected a single yellow targeting circle, as it became live once more.

Isolde-as-Mesa looked up at the looming Orokin barge. At the ziggurat, coated in fire; teeming with Corpus. The dropships that drifted above the smoking ruins of the Upper Tier; piercing the gloom with their searchlights. Her ocular lens tagged targets, marking them each in turn. Methodical, systematic.

The Pyrana at its side was a snarling short range repeater. It whirled and flashed in her hands as she twirled it about. It whipped back into its holster with a snap. Mesa rolled its neck about, cracking imaginary tendons. Awakening, after so many years dormant.

Mesa retrieved the nikana from the floor with a metallic scrape; sliding it into the rags at the small of her back.

Isolde's voice carried a harsh metallic echo as it issued from the Warframe.

"I'll wear it now. I'll wear it now and I'll bury them. The House Eternal, the Exchange. Even the damned Board. In the name of Terrenus Vern, I'll bury them _all_."

She stalked toward the ziggurat, her voice carrying over her shoulder.

"But I won't do it alone."

* * *

The _Severance Package_ and _Forward Transaction_ reported green on all systems. They idled at the edge of the Upper Tier, far from the chaos of the ziggurat.

Telin smiled as Kelpo and Stren appeared on the bridge.

"You know, Kelp; I'm beginning to think we're not getting paid for finding that contract."

"You think?"

"Mm, call it a hunch." Telin scratched at his cheek.

"Could be worse." Kelpo shrugged as he joined him by the viewport. "Got a barge out of it."

"Yeah." Telin snorted. "Finally have our own ship, our own crew. Good timing for a suicide mission, I reckon. Baby steps, and all that."

"You were always ambitious, Tel. Never said you were smart."

Telin grinned.

"So how we lookin'?"

"Guns loaded. Shields are running, but for how long is anyone's guess." Kelpo was blunt. "Crews ready; far as I can tell. But don't push it. This is going to have to be an in and out job."

"Like the old Proximus Contract." Telin raised an aside eyebrow.

"Don't remind me." Kelpo chuckled. "I still have the scars."

"Well here's to a few more, buddy."

They bumped knuckles.

Kelpo took a station beside Stren, who was now fully absorbed with the readout of the munitions station.

Telin settled back in the command throne. The ziggurat was awash in Void energy. Boulders ran freely down its sloping face; pulverising the advancing Corpus below. At its summit, a rock giant raged; stomping and bellowing; swatting at flitting drones that needled it from above. Telin was long past questioning how any of it made sense.

The Tenno did as they did. Telin Voss was just a humble scavenger. Who just so happened to owed one of them his life. Telin had scraped and scrapped through most of his life. Often poor, seldom comfortable. Never once had he been in debt.

He wasn't about to start now.

Telin flicked the broadcast button on the command chair. Open broadcast; all channels, all decks.

"Right, we doing this?" Telin asked, addressing the bridge casually.

The crew murmured a vague affirmative.

"Really? That's the best you've got?" Telin thumped his fist against the arm rest, indignant. "C'mon now; we're about to make history. Are we _doing_ this?"

A louder cheer, more heartfelt this time. Telin shook his head.

"Not good enough. Look out there. Just _look._ A thousand drones. More box-heads and warranties than I rightly know what to do with. Some see an army. I see _opportunity_. Circuits, scrap; spare parts in _bulk_. An _ocean_ of salvage."

Telin was on his feet now. He crossed to the viewport. His eyes were narrowed; voice laden with contempt.

"The Board forget about us. They write us off. Subcontractors. Starving on the lowest rung, begging for scraps. Hired help, they call us. Cheap. Disposable. _Expendable_. No longer."

Telin's eyes were infused with a zeal Kelpo had never seen. A lifetime of small indignities, of freezing their sorry hides in the most inhospitable climate. Anger, frustration; rage. It all came welling up, spilling forth in a blazing fire:

"Two barges against an army! The stuff of songs; of _legends_! The Board won't see us coming, they won't _know_ our names; but by the howling Void we'll make damn sure they _remember_ when we _send_ them there!"

Telin looked at each of the crew in turn. His voice was strong and clear; eyes fierce:

"So I ask you; one last time: are we _doing_ this?"

The crew howled.


	41. Chapter 41

" _Consider the nature of the Body. Not as a fighting unit. As an organism._

 _Individual components can accomplish much. But as they band together, those cells become something more. A greater system. A machine, infinite in its complexity. More powerful than any single component._

 _You live here in isolation, servants of The House Eternal. Bound by a duty that others of your kind may never know, or understand. But make no mistake: you form part of that larger whole._

 _A single Cell, serving a wider cause. Your fates, intertwined._

 _You are Tenno. Bound by the Void. Bound as one._

 _Know this, and you will never walk alone."_

\- Trainer, addressing the Tenno of the House Eternal.

* * *

The Tenno fell back into the ziggurat.

Kael backpedalled; the electric shield in his hands shuddering under the weight of incoming fire. Doric and Sara blazed shots over his shoulder. A Hyena tried leaping over the rim of the shield, skittering across the wall; only to be wrenched to the floor with a searing crack of Mirage's whip; legs scrabbling for purchase as it was wrenched off its feet. Volt blasted it with a surge of power from his finger-tips. It shrieked in synthetic pain, stricken.

Doric brought Atlas' mighty fist down upon it; a single savage slap. There it lay; imprinted in the stonework. Doric raised his other hand. The floor around it burst upward; sealing the corridor ahead of them shut; fusing the Hyena directly inside it; its front paw twitching plaintively.

That bought them a moment. They could hear a thousand feet scrambling across the surface of the ziggurat. Skittering like ants over an abandoned picnic. Soon they would choke the other entrances, surging inside. If the Tenno fell, then Central Elevator would be in Corpus hands.

More time. They had to buy more time.

* * *

Mesa stopped at the edge of the battlefield.

Most of the clearing was open field now. A ruinous moonscape of craters carpeted with broken drones and littered dead. The ziggurat itself was a heaving blur of drones. Its surface teemed with their numbers; shimmering and shivering like a hive.

Corpus infantry established a careful perimeter; letting the proxies exhaust themselves as they continued to pile into the temple in industrial quantities. A wall of them lay between her and her Cell; establishing plasma mortars and marshalling an array of short range artillery Moa.

So intent were they on securing the ziggurat that they never thought to look behind them. Nobody paid Isolde any attention as Mesa strode across the smoking clearing; her cloak flitting and snapping in the wind behind her. Her hands extended out by her sides, palms upraised. On she strode: a deliberate, even pace. Her targeting system mapped targets calmly; logging targets as the muscles of her frame tensed. Her forearm glowed in anticipation. A small mote of light appeared before her; circling her. Her index fingers twitched, twice.

The Regulators spun free of their elbow mountings with a metallic snap; locking smoothly into Mesa's palms.

The closest Corpus spun around, caught flat-footed by the unexpected sound behind them.

Mesa cocked her head to one side; a wordless sneer.

Giving the Corpus just enough time to soil themselves.

 _Showtime._

* * *

Atop the ziggurat; Doric's summoned Titan mewled in frustration as Hyena models pounced from all sides; latching on and biting deep with plasma incisors. It roared, swatting one or two aside; before the Void's hold gave out. The golem fell apart; an avalanche of cascading rock that tumbled freely down the ziggurat; sending many of the Hyena screeching to their deaths.

The Tenno looked up in unison.

"Not good." Sara grimaced.

"For once we agree." Doric locked a new magazine into the top of his Soma rifle. Empty magazines cluttered the floor, vying for space with steaming casings.

Kael was too focused on the drones flooding in from the other entrances; swamping the inner annex before them. There was no end to them.

Warframes did not tire. Their muscle was adaptive Technocyte; their skin hardened sword-steel. Yet there was only so much power a Tenno could draw upon, without rest; allowing that conduit to breath, even if just for a moment. He raised a hand to blast another knot of charging Moa. The fizzle of power was pathetic.

He drew his machete once more. It was notched and pitted; a sorry, broken thing. It would have to do.

The Tenno met the drones head one; surging into the swarm; blades biting, fists flashing. Rock crunched against metal and sparks flew; as geysers of coolant painted the walls in great splashing arcs.

A desperate last stand, against odds they had not seen since The Old War.

* * *

Isolde was amongst them before the Corpus noticed her. Before the Regulators sang their murderous song. They were ornate pistols, meticulously engineered; carved with Orokin precision.

With Orokin precision they found their mark; sweeping from one direction to the next; criss-crossing before Mesa. Bodies fell. Drones were wrenched from the sky; blown asunder. Around and around she spun, dancing between them; sidestepping bodies as they toppled by. The bloodied rag tied about her waist soon found company in the ground around her.

A dance of death. A murderous waltz. Mesa twirled and wove through the rank and file; the gun-kata guided by the Void itself. Shaping her movements, weaving her from harm; her aim snapping from one target to the next. The Regulators screamed at fever pitch. Then they snapped back into their moorings; steaming hot smoke as the Void released its furious grip.

To linger was death. She was one amidst a thousand. It was move and kill, or stay and die.

Mesa leapt high into the air; a conflicting light show of beams chasing her though the air. She rolled smoothly into a crouch; leapt again, drawing the Pyrana and nikana smoothly. They too found a rhythm of their own. The Pyrana gnashing out; punching crewmen off their feet. The blade, opening stomachs and removing the limbs of anyone who dared close the gap. Move and kill. Kill and move. Again and again she leapt; raining a storm of shots down upon the army as she danced between them.

Isolde ripped through the foe, blitzing her way up the stairs.

Corpus cursed their luck with thinly disguised panic. Weapons inexplicably jammed. An invisible force took a hold of energy cells and snapped them free; or scrambled the targeting matrices of the drones as they thrilled at the sight of a such an outnumbered target. And yet their shots were confounded by a force unseen; often finding their allies who screamed as they were cut down.

The Corpus tried to rush her, to knock the flowing gunfighter off her feet. If the Pyrana did not find them; the nikana certainly did. Men fell in component pieces; wounds steaming in the cold air as they fell apart.

By rights it was a suicidal charge, born of anger and grief. It should not have worked. But surprise and power are two commodities that can make the difference between success or failure in any battle. The Board's army were turned, off-balance. She was but a single target, leaping and striking amongst them.

And yet for all its bravery, Isolde's charge would not work forever. For all of Mesa's lethal potency, numbers would decide the outcome. There were simply too many. When the Corpus army asserted itself, she would be worn down eventually.

Isolde didn't care. Her heart thrilled at the rush of combat. For years she had starved herself of the Warframe's embrace. Its power, its speed; its raw lethality. It was the vessel, and she the storm within.

On and on she killed; cutting a bloody swathe through the army that reeled from the killer in its midst.

* * *

The drones before the Tenno skittered and skidded on the floor. A new order swept the command line, wheeling them about. They surged back out of the annex as quickly as they had appeared.

"Anyone care to explain?" Sara asked aloud.

They heard the buzzing rattle of the Regulators long before they heard the laughter beyond.

They paused. It had been centuries since they had seen her.

"What are we waiting for?" Mirage looked at the others.

"Isolde made her decision long ago." Doric said, the wariness in his voice clear. "She fights for herself."

"And yet she's here." Kael replied, Volt nodding at them each in turn. "Same as Sara. Same as you."

"You never saw what she did." Doric cautioned him. "What she's capable of. She's a killer."

"We're all killers." Kael replied fiercely. "She just happens to enjoy it more than most."

Sara was already running, eager to see her friend once more.

Atlas' shoulders dipped in resignation.

"I hate it when she does that." Doric sighed.

They took off after her.

* * *

Drones above. Drones to the sides. A sea of Corpus below. Regulators flashed and clacked dry and locked back once more.

Isolde thought of Vern, broken and blinded on a machine shop floor; a nikana driven through his chest.

She snarled. The Pyrana snarled with her.

Odds be damned. Let them come. She'd bury them all.

Her rage blinded her. The Void's protection eased, if only for a split second.

The lapse in concentration cost her dearly. A dozen bolts slammed into her from all directions. Mesa twisted and spun; shields fizzling. Blood splattered the steps below her; Technocyte knotted itself to seal the trauma. Transference feedback spiked. Isolde felt the animal pain as her own. She screamed; the Frame shivering in agony as she rolled onto her back.

The Pyrana was still in her hand; defiantly seeking targets. A wall of drones swarmed up toward her. Isolde hissed, taking aim.

A twisting ball of curling light speared through their midst before she had a chance to fire.

Then a shape of blinding speed dove past her; a storm of electric power pulsing from it. Boulder after boulder tumbled by her either side, slamming into the army beyond.

Mirage appeared above her. Isolde froze; blinking up at the hand extended to her.

"On your feet!" Sara roared. "There's a battle to win!"

Mesa clasped Mirage's wrist.

* * *

Pohld the Helmsmen glanced back from his console as he eased forward on the throttle. He was a mousy fellow, with a jittery disposition that stood at odds with his focus at the helm.

"Can I just note for the record, before we get started? This is a _terrible_ idea."

"Truly terrible." Teico nodded sagely.

"Awful." Stren agreed, before nonchalantly flicking a switch on his panel. "Weapons armed."

"If you all think this is a terrible idea, why on _Earth_ were you cheering?" Kelpo asked, aghast.

Stren's bushy eyebrows knitted as he jerked a thumb back at Telin, who was growing steadily more unsure of himself with each passing moment.

The haggard weapons officer offered a shabby shrug.

"Well... good speech, wunnit?"

* * *

Captain Theo Plun's memory was reliable, in the sense that he was detail orientated. He had been a naval officer for as long as he could remember, as long as he was _permitted_ to remember, at any rate. There were certain contractual obligations which forbade him from recalling anything prior to his service. Still, he had an eye for these things. Knew how to read a battle, its ebb and flow. Had cultivated that innate sense of when a push was going their way, or when further commitment was required.

He understood deployments. Troop movements, logistics; these were his specialty. He had gone nose to nose with Grineer frontline pickets more than once in his career; marshalling ground forces as the war frigates exchanged slug after slug with the Grineer galleons.

Captain Plun looked down at his XO, Lieutenant Sel.

"Explain to me, in very simple terms, what is happening below."

Sel simply shook his head in amazement, the expression on his tattooed face utterly baffled.

By rights they should be winning. By rights the colony should be theirs now. Its people brought to heel, any semblance of resistance broken. Instead his army were tangled in a battle that gripped the Upper Tier. The rest of the colony lay in open anarchy, entirely unchecked. Every conceivable deadline had been missed. The Board had expectations of him. Expectations that he, Theon Plun, was failing to meet.

Further failure would not be tolerated.

Before Captain Plun could act, something caught the younger officer's attention.

"Sir, unidentified civilian barges moving toward the ziggurat at speed."

"What?!"

The holo-display told no tales. Two radar contacts, previously greyed out on surface scans as being mere civilian rif-raff, flared an angry red. They steadily beeped as they inched closer and closer to the heart of the battle.

The angry colouration of the display meant only one thing.

Weapon signatures detected.

* * *

In the heart of the Orokin Barge, Eythan Dax took a knee before the shadowy throne. The blood dripping from his broken nose had healed, but his armour was burnt and scarred. Its golden lustre was gone entirely. His cheeks burned in shame.

No Dax should ever leave their weapon behind. Even if instructed otherwise.

The room was dark. It was always kept this way. The only light came from the underlit pools of water that lined the edge of the chamber; their reflection danced high against the ceiling. That and the gold of the Dax honour guard that lined the chambers; long fluted halberds in their hands. Each were worthy warriors; hand picked and trained by Eythan himself over the centuries.

The Royal Guard of the House Eternal.

The Last Cadre.

A melodious voice drifted down at him from the shadows.

"You look worse for wear, Eythan Dax."

"An unexpected obstacle, my Lord." Eythan Dax's eyes were locked on the floor. "I dealt with it."

"And our message?"

Eythan thought of his prized sword. His eye twitched as he nodded.

"Delivered, as instructed."

An icy chuckle filled the air.

"Excellent. Now all we need do is wait."

"Have your men make ready. We're about to have guests, and they may not be polite."

Eythan Dax rose to his feet; one arm folded against his breastplate as he bowed.

"As you command, Lord Septimus."


	42. Chapter 42

" _Clear the logs. Everything. I want it wiped. Gone, you understand?_

 _There was no colony. There was no uprising. There is nothing there other than what the scavvers will stumble across, years from now. A wreck. A wasted scrapyard._

 _A cinder, if needs be."_

\- Nef Anyo, addressing field logs received from the _Dominant Position_

* * *

Volt twisted the machete as he wrenched the blade free; letting the crewman's corpse tumble down and join so many others below. Kael looked back up the slope.

More and more drones piled over the top of the ziggurat. Filling the horizon. Burrowing clean through its corridors and emerging through the other side.

The Tenno had abandoned the channelling confines of the corridors to save Isolde. Instinctually it was natural. Estranged or not, she was one of their own.

Tactically it was an error.

For all their killing power the Moa swamped them; feet lashing; emitters spitting.

They tried to dam the flood. Atlas had built a bulwark across the face of the ziggurat; warping its smooth lines with ridged masses of ruptured stone. Kael had done the rest; hemming their flanks in with a line of shimmering shields that, while effective at absorbing the sheets of plasma fire, would not hold forever,

Isolde's Repeaters felled the Corpus in droves. Gone was the laughter now. She sweated as Mesa snapped from one target to the next. Still ever more came, eager to crush the Tenno against the side of the slope.

Moa leapt forth over the top of their improvised wall. Atlas and Mirage awaited them, tearing them off their feet. Stabbing and chopping and stamping. Ammunition had long run out; their plasma weapons overheating to the point of melting. Now it was blade work and bruising hand to hand.

Still more came. An endless tide of shrieking metal.

* * *

"All hands, stand by."

Stren's throaty voice echoed over the com line. Both crews stood ready. The weapons crews shivered at their posts; wrapped against the freezing air as the barges droned toward the conflict. Respirators and environment masks were mandatory. Not enough holes in the hull had been plugged. The wind whistled freely through the hold; tugging at sleeves and buffeting any loose strapping.

"Firing solutions piping to your stations… now."

The scavengers rustled into action; cranking manual winches and sighting the cruder cannon by eye. Turret batteries swivelled on their axis. Targets were pre-sighted. Final adjustments were made.

"Stand by." There was an electronic squelch as the com-line cut out momentarily. All they could hear was their own nervous breathing; harsh and loud in the confines of their masks.

The ziggurat drifted into view below. A surging storm of plasma bolts, electricity and eldritch power that raged across its surface.

"Mines check." Stren's voice buzz-clicked.

In the belly hold of the _Severance Package,_ Chief Engineer Lorna Rone and a fellow crewman took positions at either end of the release ramp. Between them were stacks of old power cores; improvised explosives and unexploded munitions. Anything that could be conceivably gathered, piled and weaponised clogged the cargo hold. Even the old shield core had been rigged; tied to a transmitter that would trigger the wider detonation sequence. They flashed each-other a thumbs up.

"Mines… standby."

The scavver-tech lacked polish or sophistication. It was a frontier craft, built for frontier work. Manual levers were hooked into latches securing the release ramp. Lorna braced herself for the order, shoulder pressed to the lever.

"Now!"

Both levers were hauled.

There was a metallic chunk as the release locks snapped open.

* * *

It was only in a momentary snatch-glimpse through the melee that Kael spied the _Severance_ _Package_ rumbling in overhead. The cascade of tumbling objects that rained from its belly like silent hail.

"Down!" Kael roared.

The Tenno threw their Frames flat against the stone bulwark. At the last second Kael used the last of his power to throw up one final shield. He held it over his head. Braced himself.

Nothing happened.

There was no explosion. Not at first. The Severance's minelayer was an archaic wreck. Mines and scrap refuse fused with IED's rained down; bouncing noisily off the stonework and crushing drones beneath with the sheer weight of the descending impact. They dribbled freely across the far side of the ziggurat.

Or perhaps not. Kael looked up once more. The dispersal was not random at all. Far from it; the _Severance_ made a complicated series of micro-adjustments in its course; pivoting just so. The ziggurat was being seeded with careful deliberation.

The drones possessed limited intelligence; they squawked as they hopped to and fro, unsettled by the metallic downpour; proximity sensors overloaded; the Tenno temporarily forgotten in the face of the unusual distraction.

* * *

Telin frowned. They could feel the _Severance_ palpably lighten.

"What's happening?!"

Stren had no words. He was stabbing the trigger sequence; openly sweating. Either the transmitter to the munitions was malfunctioning, or the cores were failing to erupt from the concussive impact as they bounced off the ziggurat. The hold was almost empty.

Pohld spared a glance back at him, shrilling:

"Stren, for fug's sake man! You had _one_ job!"

* * *

The Tenno stayed pressed flat against the network. The noise of chunking debris was maddening. But there was no explosion, no dramatic kick-off. After a moment they looked at each other, hesitant; still pressed flat against the deck. Even the encroaching Corpus seemed perplexed, staring up at the curious vomiting barge.

Sara alone rose to her feet. Mirage cocked her head to one side, fists planted on her hips.

"Huh, is that it?"

* * *

They were all yelling at him now.

Stren was roaring blind curses, spitting at his console in abject frustration.

He brought his fist down on the console, once.

The faulty transmitter connected with a cheerful ping.

* * *

There was a shockwave.

Fully half of Watch Control disappeared in a mushroom cloud of blinding light.

The far side of the ziggurat simply vanished. Then more explosions, as the isolated duds triggered in a rippling, trembling chain reaction. The Boardroom at the summit was obliterated instantly. The detonation was all but visible from orbit. The shockwave flattened the Tenno; all save Atlas, who fell to his knees, such was the staggering force of the blast. Transference Static threatened to rip them from their Frames entirely.

Then the sound caught up with the fury of the violence. It hit them with a slap. A deafening roar. The Frames spasmed; systems overwhelmed by a fury that tested even their ab-human endurance.

The slope trembled. Entire sections of the façade simply shucked its surface coating; a descending tide of sifting rubble that passed either side of the Tenno's makeshift shelter. Drones were washed away by the surging tide of toppling rockwork. EMP did the rest. Drones clattered to the floor in spreading wave of flopping artifices.

Watch Control had been reduced to a blackened cinder; a cross-section of exposed rooms and twisted rubble; robbed of all shape or form. The Tenno blinked. Only their side of the ziggurat remained relatively intact, and even then it was a scorched mess.

"What the _hell_ was that?!" Sara croaked, as Isolde's Frame hauled Mirage upright. Their shields sparked fitfully as they reasserted themselves.

Kael clambered to his feet, swiping charred pieces of drones from his shoulder plating. Each of the Tenno were caked in sooty grime. Charred flakes flitted down over them in an ashen blizzard.

"Reinforcements." Kael chuckled, as Volt dusted itself down.

Sara was livid, all but deafened by the explosion. Mirage stomped her foot; channelling her Operator's indignation.

"Reinforcements?! They damn nearly _killed_ us!"

* * *

The scopes were awash with smoke. Visibility was gone.

"Void's Teeth…" Kelpo blinked through the scope. "You think we over did it?"

There was the briefest of breaks in the oily fog. Large parts of the Citadel were simply gone. Broken drones layered its surface; their instrumentation pulverised by the shockwave.

Stren was still wheezing, tears rolling down his face.

"Solid hit!" He cackled. "Always hated that place!"

There was no time to celebrate. Corpus manufacturing was cut-price, but not without in-built redundancies. The stricken army began to recover; the surviving drone horde slowly rebooting and groggily finding its feet once more. Many limped lamely or simply fell back over, giving out. But for all the numbing violence, it was clear that the Board's army would not so easily be defeated.

It was now or never.

"Light 'em up!" Telin cried. "Hit 'em with everything we've got!"

Stren picked up the com-horn.

"All hands, weapons free!"

Turrets chattered to life, steaming into the Corpus army freely. Fire licked freely from the barrels of rotary cannons, as they raked churning beams in criss-crossing patterns across the dazed army.

In the distance, the _Forward Transaction_ deployed its mine layer; carpet bombing the beleaguered Corpus invasion force as they stumbled through the hell-smoke. A lightshow of Corpus munitions struck out, venting into the Board's forces with ruthless intent.

Return fire was sporadic, scattered. Those crewmen still alive on the ground were entirely shell-shocked, stumbling through the haze in a stupor; ears bleeding. Senior crewmen went hoarse trying to marshal them. Hauling their fellows upright, bawling orders that conflicted from one second to the next. Their unit to unit communications were shot. Drone coordination was fried.

All was confusion. The only light sources were the rig-lights of the crewmen, and the probing searchlights coming from the marauding barges above. That and the downpour of tracer fire, which blazed like hellfire through curtaining black smoke. The Corpus officers slowly began rallying their fellow crewmen.

Shapes flitted through the mire toward them. Too fast to track; elusive, fleeting.

The Tenno cut them down; blades biting. Whispering nightmares that emerged, struck; and then vanished again.

* * *

Telin sat forward in his chair, staring at the charred slag that had once been the ziggurat. It was as though some terrible god had taken a scoop to the side of the Temple, and dug at the Upper Tier with thinly disguised greed. They had definitely overdone it.

The scavenger shook himself, snapping out of his stunned silence.

"Take us in." He ordered. "We're on a clock here."

Pohld licked his lips, tipping the control yolk. The _Severance_ dipped into a steep dive.

There was a lurching sensation as the _Severance_ swept in low over the charred blast radius. Turrets droned and rattled, steaming drones off their feet. The crew slammed open firing ports; squeezing off shots into the horde with small arms fire. There was little aiming required, such was the density of targets available.

Impulse drives pulsed and wobbled as the barge slew to a halt, its belly all but tickling the ruined surface. The hull began to shudder from the multitude of impacts impacting the outer shield. It was their backup system; one ill-suited to for prolonged abuse. The _Forward Transaction_ rove overhead; turrets describing a pulsing tide of spearing light as it lay down cover fire.

Direct coms were still soup; awash with static. Fortunately the _Severance_ had been designed with more primitive redundancies of its own; a by-product of its looted heritage. Telin scooped up the old fashioned com-horn, broadcasting on the ship's PA.

"Kael if you can hear me haul ass!"

He waited, the com-horn in one hand.

There was a series of thumps as heavy objects landed on the roof of the barge from improbable angles. The plating banged twice.

Telin frowned, looked up.

"That you, kid?"

Another confirmation thump, more insistent.

"Works for me." Telin shrugged. He nodded at Pohld. "Get us out of here Pohld."

Pohld was sweating. The shield system was taking a pummelling.

"Gladly."

The _Severance Package_ 's engines blasted as it took off at maximum speed; bound for the horizon.

Kelpo pulled a switch. Volt and the other Warframes tumbled in from the top hatch at the rear of the bridge, landing in a clattering heap. The Warframes were scorched and blackened; filthy with soot.

Kael was the first to emerge from his Frame in a flash of light, his clothing remarkably pristine in contrast with the Frame behind him. His face was sheened with sweat, as Kelpo helped him up.

"We never asked for a rescue." he breathed, "But thank you."

"A _rescue_?" Telin arched an eyebrow and feigned surprise as he twisted about in his command chair. "Hear that Stren? You _missed_."

They laughed; as the _Severance_ and its sister ship gunned for the horizon with all speed.

* * *

In the depths of the Lower Tier, a great and terrible force took a hold of the Central Elevator and shook it. The lights went out. The massive elevator ground to a jolting halt, throwing them off their feet. Murmured cries of alarm filled the air. The only light was from the startled faces of the mechanised; as they blinked blue confusion in the dark. They groped about in the dark, blind with panic.

Something had struck the colony, hard. It was not an orbital strike. The Board wouldn't risk their investment, not unless the situation was beyond repair. But Neera had no intention of sitting around waiting for things to deteriorate further.

Neera was on her feet before most of them. Orbital bombardment or not, there was no way she was sitting in this death trap any longer. She raised her voice above the chaos.

"C'mon! We have to move. Everybody off!"

They clambered for the small emergency egress tunnels that lined the edge of the elevator shaft. Neera found herself directing the evacuation, helping the more addled survivors collect themselves as they clambered in one by one.

She looked over at Sparks, at the back of the procession. The burly welder seemed distraught as he looked around.

"The trader." The Solaris rebel shook his head ruefully. "He's gone."

* * *

Aboard the _Dominant Position_ , Captain Theo Plun watched in sullen silence as fully a third of his forces vanished from the tactical display. The initial explosion had decimated the assault force. EMP had rendered many of the surviving units combat ineffective. That left him a combat force hovering around fifty percent efficiency, give or take. The dropships had largely been recalled; one of the few saving graces in this entire debacle.

Captain Plun considered the disposition of his forces. Still more than enough to take the colony, under the circumstances. Nevertheless, protocol was clear.

"Prepare a second wave." The Captain instructed Lieutenant Sel, crossing to the viewport. "Full production cycle. Drone units; the more you can give me the better."

Plun clasped his hands at the small of his back. He thought of the Tenno. The blast should have killed them. _Must_ have killed them. Even so, he was an investor, not a gambler.

Risk would be mitigated. The Void demanded as much.

"Send word to the Board. Requesting contingency approval for planetary bombardment. Standard containment spread."

"Is that a bit extreme, Sir?" Sel asked hesitantly. "Our orders were to secure the colony, not destroy it."

"There are Tenno in our deployment zone." Captain Plun replied sternly. "Nothing is too extreme."

Plun's eyes narrowed, as he mused to himself.

"By the Void, we will take this colony, or bury them in its ashes."


	43. Chapter 43

" _What do you remember of The Collapse? Where were you, when it happened?_

 _It was to be our moment of victory. Our Grand Celebration. The Sentient were broken; finally vanquished by the Void killers we had so carefully crafted, after so many disastrous setbacks. Our greatest triumph. Our most ruthless creation. Our crowning mistake._

 _The blood was still warm on the floor of the Outer Terminus when it began. The Grineer in open rebellion. The Technocyte Plague running rampant; entirely unchecked. Those who could salvage the situation were too few. Our leaders, for the most part, were dead. Noble Ballas was nowhere to be found. I had assumed him slain, like so many others._

 _The Tenno had betrayed us; the Seven butchered with thinly disguised hate. Our ruling council cut down; decapitated in a single savage stroke._

 _A Grand Betrayal; one that buried a civilisation; and damned us all."_

\- Musings on the Fall of the Orokin Empire, Author Unknown

* * *

The _Severance_ and the _Forward Transaction_ flew away from the smoking ruin of the ziggurat with all speed. They had no destination.

"Pardon me for asking the obvious question." Sara cleared her throat. "But where are we going?"

"Anywhere but here." Telin replied. Privately he had been wondering the same thing.

"You're _running away?_ " Sara was incredulous.

"Have you a better plan?!" Telin shot back.

Smoke churned up all around the two barges as they sped through the ruins of the Upper Tier. It blanketed the city; a layer of impermeable smog that billowed and parted as the barges sped through.

All was ruin. If the colony had once resembled an ornate candlestick, its top layer was a melted mess; ugly and misshapen. Skeletal blown out buildings rose out of the smog like headstones. Plumes of boiling smoke rose up from the bombed out data stacks and washed across the viewport. Pohld kept his eyes on the instrumentation, lips taut. The smoke afforded them cover from the recovering Corpus army, but there was the ever present-risk of colliding with the architecture.

The silence was deafening. Telin felt the Tenno's eyes on him. He kept his eyes on the viewport as he spoke.

"Look, I admire the whole noble child warrior monk schtick, I really do. But let's deal with the facts here. We barely got out of there. We've barely any ammo. Our shields? All but toast. And the _mine trick_? That's a strictly one-time gig."

"We're in the salvage business, not miracles." Kelpo agreed.

"Sara's not asking for miracles." Kael replied patiently. "Only to let us finish what we started."

Telin sighed, twisting in the command chair to face Kael. His face was lined with exhaustion.

"Let's assume for a moment that staying in this fight was in any way possible, Kael. That somehow we had some way of meaningfully stopping the Board from simply filling the sky with more dropships. Let's be clear: this is ship isn't space-worthy. Not even before it was riddled with holes; and certainly not now."

"You're right." Isolde stepped forward, eyes narrowed at the sifting fog ahead. "It's not."

She pointed behind him, one hand resting on the back of the command throne.

"But that is."

The smoke parted. The Orokin barge awaited them on the Northern Landing Pad. A majestic, sleeping behemoth fully three times the size of the _Severance_. A gilded brute.

"What the hell is that thing?" Telin blinked.

"You mean you haven't noticed the gilded monster sitting on the edge of the Upper Tier?" Stren raised an eyebrow. "Need your eyes checked, lad."

Telin shot him a look. Stren coughed.

"Erm, Captain."

"Let's just say I've been a little preoccupied. What am I looking at?"

"Unfinished business." Isolde said, her expression grave, "Why I came back."

Telin smiled politely at that.

"… yeah, not helping. One more time, with less Tenno mystique?"

Isolde ignored him. She turned and looked at the other Tenno.

"Time is short. A brief word, if I may."

* * *

They convened in private, in an empty hold at the rear of the ship. Their Frames lined the edges of the chamber, silent statutes; heads bowed.

Isolde paced before them, gripping the golden nikana. She felt Doric's glare upon her; hated the fleeting, uncertain look Sara gave her whenever they made eye contact. A thousand emotions roiled beneath her surface. They were friends. Or had been, once. Damnit, it wasn't meant to be like this.

Kael said nothing. So much remained a mystery to him. How had he found himself on Venus? What had struck him down, and why? He bit his tongue, wary of the leaden tension that draped the air. For all the clarity that had returned to him, so much remained elusive; wrapped in the fog of ancient memory.

Isolde heaved a sigh, then began, addressing Doric and Sara in particular.

"I know you don't trust me. For doing what I did. For leaving, when I thought the task was done."

The others said nothing. She continued.

"You have to understand. I wanted revenge. For what they did. For the lives they stole from us. And what they planned to do."

"And you sought it alone." Doric's eyes were slits.

Sara studied the floor, desperately wanting to be somewhere else.

"What did you want me to do?" Isolde stood tall, arms spread; incredulous. "Sohren was gone. Kael; lost to us. The other Tenno were in open rebellion. The Empire was falling. We knew Septimus' wretched contingency. We had to act!"

Sara had gone entirely pale. She crossed her arms, her chin tucked against her chest.

A war she could handle. But this row had been coming for centuries.

"And I asked you to _wait_." Doric stepped closer to her,. "To stand _with_ us. To find Kael; act as one! As we agreed! As we prepared for!"

"There was no time!" Isolde blazed. "A moment's delay and the House would have been gone forever! I saw my chance to bury them and I _took_ it!"

"It didn't give you licence to murder!" Doric thundered, words all but spitting "To _butcher_!"

"Would that I butchered them _sooner_!" Isolde snarled back as she stepped closer. "Sohren might still be with us!"

"How _dare_ you—"

"Enough!" Kael blazed. The lights in the hold flickered.

They all shut up. Looked at him. Doric and Isolde were nose to nose, fit to kill one another.

Kael looked at them all in confused frustration. His expression pained, all but pleading.

"Can somebody _please_ tell me what's going on?"

Both Doric and Isolde fell silent, their faces a mask of guilt.

It was then that Sara stepped between them, pushing them aside; and began to speak, quietly.

Of the end times.

Of how they got here.


	44. Interlude: Revelations & Reckonings

" _The War is ended._

 _There is to be a celebration. I will have no part in it. My Continuity grows near. Damned be the hour, but I must move to the Temple on Earth, and quickly. Time grows short. This flesh is frail._

 _No bartering for me. No auctions or bidding. The work of the House Eternal is too important. There is much to rebuild, so much more to document. We Orokin will survive this war. We will flourish._

 _In the end only one could be chosen. I have made my decision."_

\- Vitruvian 2-3

* * *

 _Then._

Isolde is a patient hunter.

Even so, her patience has its limits. She sits quietly in the dark, legs folded beneath her.

The Dax presence has relaxed somewhat. The Cadre keep entirely to themselves, leaving the Tenno be.

The House Eternal does not seat itself in one fixed location. It changes every few months. Hidden towers and fortresses lie scattered across the Empire.

Of all the many citadels they have occupied throughout the War, the Mars Bastion is her least favourite. It is an ancient fortress; carved into the very mountain itself. Retainers sweep the floors, robes swishing across the cool stone as they fight an endless battle against the unstinting tide of sand that blows in from the wastes.

Outside the air is arid and pitiless, the dusty canyons and howling winds sifting stinging sheets of sands through the open windows that mark the ancient monastery's walls.

Isolde prefers the darkness of the Grotto.

It is a cavern at the pit of the fortress. Orokin engineers have worked hard, coaxing the underground spring to the surface. The water splashes down the cool rock, a pattering sound that soothes her anxious mind.

There are five regular indentations in the wall. The Liset cling to the edge of the surface of the fortress, hidden in the shadows of the deep canyon. Ready for deployment at a moment's notice. Sohren's is missing. This is not unusual. With Trainer's passing, Sohren often serves as Lord Septimus' avatar, representing him in matters of state and custodial affairs where the Lord of the House Eternal cannot be in person.

Only Mesa accompanies her in the dark. This is part habit, part precaution. She does not trust Eythan Dax, or his men.

The lack of a war has led the Tenno in separate directions. Doric is lost in his books now. Isolde knows better than to distract him. Endless study is his gift, not hers. She waits by her Frame, anxious to keep it close should Eythan Dax and his ilk elevate their actions beyond mere surveillance. She does what only a patient hunter can.

She bides her time. She distracts herself.

Isolde sets the Tarot on the deck again, scraping each leathery card against the hard stone floor in careful, deliberate sequence.

The Nine of Quills. Fate, ever-changing.

The Four of Chains. The ties that bind.

The Fool's Eye.

Her hand trembles as she sets out the next three cards. Knows their faces even before they are revealed.

The Yuvan.

The Tower, inverted.

And finally, that grinning skull.

Death.

It is the same sequence. Always the same.

The set had been an ironic gift. One from her Mother. Her parents were scientists. People of science and learning. Superstition was beneath them. And yet every time she sets the cards out, the sequence repeats.

She scoops the cards up, reshuffles with a sense of ever-mounting dread.

And deals again.

* * *

Sara claps her hands.

The musicians in the halls bow as one. The Archimedeans and the Lorists cheer and holler. The revelry is constrained, given the nature of The House Eternal, but celebrations are nevertheless in order.

The War is over, after all. They have won.

Word of the Grand Celebration is abuzz, leaving the courtiers and retainers breathless with excitement. The Tenno are to be honoured in a grand ceremony. It is the talk of the Rail. The Seven themselves will be present.

Sara knows her Cell will not attend. Cannot attend. They are of The House Eternal. Theirs is a secret life, of service left unseen. Still, she enjoys the mood that has left the soldiers and scholars around her buoyant. After so many years of endless struggle, of so many battles and unstinting horror, their hard work is finally at an end.

She rises from her chair, sparing a glance at the corridor beyond. She is the only Tenno present.

The others are unsuited to life without conflict. One in particular worries her.

She sighs and makes for the kitchens.

* * *

It is only when Sara places a warm mug on the table and pushes it steaming into Doric's hands that he stirs from his slumber. He blinks. It is morning in The House Eternal.

How long has he slept? Twenty minutes? An hour?

Dust motes twirl and dance a giddy jig in the great arched windows that form skylights to the Library. Doric rubs at his eyes, massaging the heavy bags beneath. For all his power and manifold gifts; he is, ultimately, human. His calloused fingers are smudged with ink, which has filled a neat pile of journals and diaries as tall as any of the heaps around him.

Knowledge surrounds him. Stacks of learning rendered in as many forms as there are languages. Data slates and gilded Vitruvian, ancient tomes and rumpled scrolls. Gathered too is a sea of endless mugs and Martian clay ware. Some filled, others with dregs of caffeine or flavoured lemon water. Sara has been clearing them as they pile up, "Emptying the hutch", as she calls it. Doric knows he is a disgrace, that Trainer would take him to task over his dishevelled appearance, but there is so much to learn, and so little time.

Continuity. The word taunts him. Endless, infinite – but how so? In what context? Whatever the secret is, it is closely guarded. He is working in over two dozen languages; many forgotten. Cracking cyphers and riddles. Deciphering texts and tablets long faded. Interpreting ancient poems that might as well be riddles, such is the antiquity of their wording. Still the answer eludes him.

There is a reason for this.

He finds gaps in the documents. Intentional censorship. Pages torn, scrolls strategically missing select pieces of parchment; Vitruvian carefully expunged, redacted. For all its knowledge, there are answers in the Library that the Orokin do not wish others to know. A secret, sacrosanct. Forbidden.

Doric presses on, building a picture: stalking the answer he seeks by framing the gap at its centre with the knowledge around it.

He is close. So very close.

* * *

Kael meets Sohren in the sparring chamber at the top of The House Eternal. He is dressed for their morning session: a simple black body-glove, a blunted skana in his hands. His hands and feet are exposed. They have moved away from wooden weapons, trusting each other with true steel, however dull.

The chamber is on the summit of The House Eternal: an open air auditorium flanked by dark red stone, cut into the top of the mountain. The stonework of the floor is of Earthen import, arrayed in a pattern around the Endless Eye of the House Eternal. The endless wastes are visible through the gaps in the pillars, a magnificent view of undulating rock and sloping dunes. The stonework is warm beneath his feet.

Sohren is dressed quite differently today. He wears a ceremonial suit of gilded armour, more comparable to a Dax honour guard. An artic white cloak drapes across his shoulders; pinned in place by a shining silver broach. It flashes brilliantly in the sun as he turns to face Kael.

Sohren looks imperious, every inch the heroic warrior of old.

"What is the occasion, Friend Sohren?" Kael smiles, laughing. "Should I have worn a robe?"

Sohren returns the smile, but it is fleeting, distracted.

"I can't train with you, Brother. Not today."

Kael raises an eyebrow.

"Oh? Afraid I'll school you?"

Sohren shoots him a scowl.

"Now, now. Trainer taught you better than to spout such nonsense." His expression grows serious. "But I must speak with you, if I may. A favour."

Kael nods readily.

"Of course. Anything."

Sohren smiles.

"I am leaving. For how long, I cannot say."

"The Ceremony?" Kael grins, clapping him on the shoulder excitedly. "You have been selected?"

Sohren shakes his head, smiling sadly.

"We serve the House Eternal, Kael. Such glory is not ours to witness."

Kael frowns.

"A mission, then?"

"Of sorts." Sohren offers the merest shrug, armour clicking with the gesture, "In truth I cannot say. But I have a duty to you, and the others, as much as any Lord."

Sohren produces a sword, swathed in velvet crimson.

"My father's sword. Yours now." Sohren smiled at his friend, "You have command of the Cell until I return. Keep them focused. Keep them together. I worry for them, now that the War is done."

Kael takes the sword in his hands. It is a gilded nikana: silver laced with gold.

Kael shakes his head, marvelling at its craftsmanship as he draws it briefly from its sheath. It is perfectly weighted; the metal folded countless times. Sohren has wielded it in a thousand battles. Countless enemies of the Empire have met its final, biting touch.

"I cannot accept this." Kael breathes.

Sohren smiles reproachfully.

"You can and you shall. Quarrel no further; my time is short."

"But what if you need it?"

"I am with our Lord, surrounded by the finest Dax." Sohren laughed. "Go on, it's yours."

The blade clacks back into its sheath smoothly.

Kael takes a step back. He bows, deeply, the sword close to his chest.

"I accept your gift with thanks, Tenno Sohren. Go with Glory."

Sohren returns the bow, fist folded across his chest.

"Go with Glory, Tenno Kael."

Dax have appeared at the edge of the arena. Eythan Dax nods at Sohren.

It is time. He is expected.

Sohren looks at them, then back at Kael. Sohren offers a curt nod and a smile.

"Well then. Until our paths next cross."

Kael returns the nod, as solemn as ever.

There is nothing further to say. Sohren turns and heads for the dark tunnel at the edge of the Arena. The Dax fold in behind him, a royal escort eight strong. Kael watches them go.

Sohren is the first to be swallowed by the darkness of the tunnel.

Kael never sees him again.

* * *

Doric turns the pages of the next chapter, heaving a sigh despite himself. This is futile. His current book is ponderously written, obsessed with the banal and the arcane. _Rituals of the Meso Era._ A tired tome, even to one as versed in academia as Doric.

A loose leaf sifts to the floor. He frowns, picks it up.

It is an illustration. Rendered in harsh charcoal and crude crayon, its lines harsh and angular. Whether it comes from the book or from a separate text the illustration is arresting.

It depicts a single figure, diminutive in height. The figure stands atop a shallow pedestal, surrounded on all sides by hunched, snarling figures. Elder wrecks and haggard crones, they bicker and bid, casting shekels and bidding vast fortunes.

It is an exchange of power, a bidding contest between rival parties.

It is an auction.

There is something forbidden about the drawing. Something dangerous. It is illicit, heretical.

The symbol denotated at the base of the small figures face is known to him. He has seen it before, countless times in his research. Always in connection with the Orokin. Always in reference to the Continuity they always mention, but never explain.

Doric bolts upright. Paper flies as he scrambles for his notes.

The same word, over and over. Seldom explained.

Eventually he finds a translation he can work with.

Yuvan.

Ancient Hindu. The translations are diverse and varied, but the same two words crop up; over and over.

Young, healthy.

Doric looks at the elder crones, then at the single figure they squabble over.

Around them all, that etched symbol. Framing the entire picture in jagged markings.

 _Continuity._

A pit opens in his stomach.

* * *

It is mid-morning.

There has been no word from the site of the Grand Celebration. It was to be a crowning moment of glory for the honoured Tenno. By rights it should have been broadcast to all and sundry by now.

Instead nothing. Just a lingering silence. The retainers and staff wait by the broadcast monitors, exchange uncertain glances.

A half hour passes. The retainers emit a deflated sigh. There must be a technical fault with the base's transmitter. The Dax confer privately, exchanging glances. Unbeknownst to the Tenno of the House Eternal, there is a seismic shift in the Empire's status quo.

Orders are given.

Sara knows none of this. She resumes her rounds, visiting Doric once more.

She is bound for the kitchens, fists full with bunches of clanking mugs when she hears the barge depart. It rises up into the air above the citadel, drives thrumming at maximum speed.

Sara finds what little entertainment she can. She watches it leave.

It is Lord Septimus' personal ship. It thrums into the sky, engines pulsing. She watches it leave through the window, disappearing into the cloudless sky. She senses a sudden feeling of sadness, and cannot understand why. It is a curious feeling.

Perhaps it is because she is not aboard. Perhaps because she is missing out on some secretive adventure, that is not for her to know or experience.

Or perhaps, years from now, she will look back and realise that this was the moment when their lives change forever.

She hears footsteps sprinting behind her.

It is Doric, breathless. A single tattered page flaps wildly in his hand.

* * *

Kael works through his kata with his practice sword, Sohren's blade is tied at his waist. It is too grand a blade for simple drill work.

The barge has long disappeared into the sky. He watched it go, a hand cupped over his brow to shield from the beating sun.

That was then. He resumes his drills, honing his skills for the time that he may duel his friend again.

The sun is high in the sky now. It is early afternoon on Mars. Kael's brow is sheened with sweat.

The blade moves slowly, describing a deliberate flow interspersed with sharp cuts that split the air and whistle. He stops mid flow.

Many eyes are watching him from the shadows of the tunnel.

The Dax soldiers that emerge are not the same warriors who accompanied Sohren that morning. Far from it.

This is no honour guard. They are dressed in field gear. Stark and utilitarian. They wear no insignia, no identifying marks of any kind. Leering Oni masks rob their faces of any expression.

Kael is Tenno. He senses the tension even as they file out into the practice area.

Kael turns to face them.

"Well met." Kael nods a greeting. "A fine day for a bit of sparring."

They do not reply. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

There are two of them. He glances over his shoulder.

No, four. They have fanned out in a circle. Surrounding him.

The Tenno watches them carefully.

The Dax draw their blades as one. Long form nodachi; streamline blades hissing from their sheathes in a single smooth motion. Kael silently notes the nature of the blades. Razor-sharp, killing edges all. Far longer than his dull training sword.

Trainer's words stay with him, even now.

A Dax does not draw unless they intend to kill.

Kael does what any Tenno would.

He flourishes his practice blade up before his nose: a classic fencing salute.

He bows, ever respectful.

As his other hand closes around the hilt of Sohren's blade, cinched at the small of his back.

* * *

In the Grotto there is a burst of commotion.

One of the Lisets detaches from its moorings. Canyon winds howl through the gap, sending the cards flying. Isolde leaps to her feet, shielding her eyes; dark robes flapping.

Tarot cards swirl all around her. She blinks as the environment seals entomb her once more in soothing darkness. She recognises the space the Liset has departed.

It is Kael's.

* * *

At first Kael intends only to incapacitate. He favours the practice sword; flowing between his opponents. The blade reflects strike after strike, turning aside attacks that surely intend to kill. He rolls and whirls from one opponent to the next: a whirling blur. He checks their guard; punishing his would be assassins with snatching hits that dent armguards and flash at their faces.

The Dax are Dax. Master swordsmen, every bit as skilled as he.

Even so their numbers grant them overconfidence. They rush him as one. No less than three blades are caught in a lock with his own. The metal peals as it struggles.

Physically they outmatch him, man for man.

"Final warning." The Tenno pants, sweat beading his brow. "Desist."

The fourth man slashes at him.

Kael rolls away at the last second, shrieking his blade free. Not fast enough. Warm blood spits on burning stone. It was a glancing hit, but the Dax have caught his bicep.

The Tenno snarls in pain, reacts. Sohren's blade leaves it sheath in a whipping strike.

A charging Dax topples to the floor, a geyser of blood jetting from the stump that was once his neck.

Kael whirls both blades around to criss-cross before him, sinking low in a crouching guard.

His lupine war stare takes them in, eyes brimming with controlled fury, nostrils flaring as blood pours down his arm.

The other Dax freeze, exchanging glances. They raise their guard, warier now.

They fan out, encircling him once more.

The merciless sun beats down upon them, relentless.

* * *

Doric grabs Sara by both arms, panting. Sweat soaks his tunic. He has sprinted fully three levels of the fortress to reach her.

"Continuity! I know what it is!" Doric gasps. We have to warn the others!"

Sara is taken aback. Doric is a frenzied wreck. He had not slept properly in three days. None of what he says makes even the slightest semblance of sense.

She gets three words in.

"Kael? Drilling. Why?"

"Isolde?!"

"The Grotto." Sara shakes her head. "What's the matter? What's _wrong_ with you?!"

Doric ignores her.

"Sohren, where's Sohren?!"

"I've no idea. With Kael maybe?" She grabs his wrists, trying again. " _Why?"_

Before he can react further, there is a clatter of armoured feet.

Dax soldiers line both ends of the corridor. Their faces are hidden by snarling masks.

Trainer has taught them the turbulent history of the Empire. The various ages: from ancient Lith to the early Axi. Sara is as rebellious as a Tenno can be, but she is a quick student. She remembers her lessons well.

The Empire has not been without its internal struggles, throughout its many ages. Internecine warfare, attempted coups and countless betrayals. Orokin history is often penned in the blood of tyrants, or traitors. These Dax have masked their faces, as any assassin would. Their intentions are clear.

Sara tightens her grip on the bunched mugs.

Doric stands tall behind her. Gone is the fatigue now.

The Tenno stand back to back: Doric's hands raised in a resting guard, Sara and her collection of clay ware.

They have no real weapons. They are penned in on both sides.

The Dax on Sara's side rush them first, hoping to drive them backward into their comrades waiting blades.

Sara hurls the mugs into the air. The air shudders as the Void slaps the air; shattering the clay into a thousand lancing fragments. The Dax shy back as the shards glance off their armour; skittering off their bracers. Sara and Doric take the momentary distraction to charge: angling punches at throats and kicking at the soft sections of their armour. Doric's beaked fist catches a windpipe. A Dax falls, choking.

Sara draws a blade free from one Dax's boot, buries it deep into the next man's throat. Blood dribbles from the eyeholes of his mask, as he falls; his whole body juddering. The Tenno sprint free, exploiting the gap. Clattering armoured cleats reverberate against the high stone walls, as the rest of the Dax give chase.

They round the corner.

Mesa stands in the doorway, Regulators low at her side. Doric yelps and hauls Sara into a side archway at the last second.

There is a dizzying storm of rapid fire shots. A clatter of armour as bodies topple.

Mesa appears, wreathed in gun smoke.

Isolde's voice is rendered harsh and stern through the Warframe's filters as she looks down at them.

"The Grotto. Move."

Sara bolts for her Warframe.

Doric hesitates. He can feel Isolde's rage simmering in the air around the Frame, infusing the Void around her. She has to know.

"Sohren and Kael. You have to warn them."

Mesa's mask then is a silvered helmet, not dissimilar to an ancient Conquistador. It betrays no expression as she listens.

"I've discovered what Continuity is." Doris says. "How _exactly_ the Orokin live forever."

And so he tells her. Of the parades of children; a shivering procession that winds its way high up into the Mountain Pass, to a forbidden fortress on Ancient Earth. Of the Chosen that is selected, the Yuvan. Of the bidding that ensues. The pithy bartering and twisted arcane rituals that follow.

The more he explains, the more Mesa's fists curl into tightened balls.

How the children's minds are stolen from them, their spirits crushed as Transference obliterates their very essence, replacing them.

The knuckles themselves crack.

How the process is repeated, time and time again. Now and forever, pitiless and cruel.

The Regulator's reflexively snap into her hands, itching for a target.

* * *

Kael plays for time he does not have. The Dax know better than to try and brute force him. He is bleeding, but not helpless.

The wound on his arm weeps openly, soaking his body glove.

That is not enough for his would-be killers. They inch ever closer, probing the outer stretches of his guard. Testing him. Time and time again the blades flash – staccato exchanges of shrieking steel, brief and deadly.

One Dax overextends himself. His swordsmanship is excellent. There is no faulting the striking technique or angle of attack. But Kael is lightly armoured, dressed for quick sparring against a fellow Tenno. This grants him a certain speed that far outstrips the armoured Dax.

He spins inside the Dax's guard, the training blade turning the Dax's blade high and aside. Sohren's sword flashes, and the Dax is left without a hand. Kael is not finished.

He is Tenno. His commitment to the kill is absolute.

The training sword is cast aside entirely. Two handed, the golden nikana opens the man's throat, then belly; swift alternating cuts. Then it snaps back around, truncating the man's leg at the ankle. The Dax topples, gurgling.

The assassin is still falling when the blade comes down through his chest, slamming clean through the breastplate in a decisive twisting finish. Kael dances back, ripping the blade free and flecking the sandy stone with blood.

The young man holds his friend's blade pointed toward the two Dax, fully-extended, as they slowly circle each other. His face is entirely devoid of emotion. That wolf-like stare never blinks.

Two against one now.

The Dax's teamwork is laudable. They have seen the Tenno's style now; assessed how the boy moves and balances himself. Most Tenno are thought to be physically frail, wholly dependent on their Warframes.

Not so a Tenno of the House Eternal.

The Dax change their approach: adopting alternating stances that will sorely test Kael's ability to defend. It is a sound tactic, emblematic of their skill and training. In a fair fight, it would surely work.

Kael has no intention of fighting fair. He grunts as he burns his cut arm shut with the Void, his vision swimming as the flesh cauterises.

Then he intentionally lowers his guard. He closes his eyes, waiting.

The Dax see the feint for what it is. They tense, expecting some trick or subterfuge.

The Tenno waits, breathing deeply. Listening with every sense.

The taller Dax strikes first. His blade cleaves forward, whooping as it splits the air.

The golden nikana clatters to the stone floor.

The Tenno has vanished.

The Dax frowns, spinning about, uncertain. He glances left and right, his blade at high guard. The golden nikana rattles at his feet, between his legs, abandoned.

Kael reappears from the Void behind the Dax, crouched low. The nikana rips upward; flaring with eldritch power as the Tenno's eyes blaze.

The Dax flops apart in two separate directions.

Kael doesn't wait for the blood to settle. He is already charging the final Dax, who lunges in return.

Steel meets steel as they flash past one another. The Tenno rolls to his feet, recovering. He blinks, patting himself down.

He is unscathed.

The final Dax stands tall, facing him. Then his foot staggers, once.

The Dax crashes over in a heap, face-first; an expanding pool of blood running freely across the tiles.

Kael looks up as his Liset finally arrives. He thinks of warning the others. Of Isolde and Doric and Sara: unarmed, scattered throughout the fortress. Of Sohren's parting words.

Then thinks of Sohren, surrounded on all sides by Eythan Dax and his Honour Guard.

He looks at the bloodied sword in his hands.

There is no time.

* * *

Kael is long gone by the time the other Tenno tear their way through the old monastery, fighting their way to the summit.

They find the discarded training sword and the Dax's ravaged bodies scattered across the roof of the temple. The wind whistles freely through the pillars around them, low and plaintive.

Sara and Doric look at each other. Then Doric looks back over his shoulder.

Isolde too is gone.

* * *

Kael's Liset emerges from the Rail Gate, shuddering. He sits encased in the Somatic Link. His senses are one with the organics of the ship around him. Once more, he sees through eyes that are not his own.

Venus stretches out before him. The surface is a raging extreme of boiling heat and numbing cold. His Ship Cephalon scans on all frequencies, adamant that the signal is here. Where is it? Where have they taken Sohren?

The Planetary Defence Grid surrounds Kael. Imposing cylindrical towers, they lay there inert. They have not fired since the Sentient last broached the sector. Debris and asteroids flit by as the Liset weaves its way through the wreckage. So much of it is still fresh from the war.

A proximity alert. Kael blinks, seeing the debris moments before his Cephalon takes over; neatly slipping the ship around it. An asteroid of some kind, larger than most.

An alarm bleats. His Cephalon, normally so calm and focused, shrills in panic. The debris is no debris at all.

The Orokin Barge bears down on them, weapons already powering up.

Kael has time to scream before a wall of light envelops them.

He is slammed into darkness.

The Liset falls in a tail spin towards the planet, its bow alight. The Cephalon is gone, so too are ship systems, any semblance of control.

By the time the Tenno awakes, the House Eternal will be long forgotten.

And Origin System forever changed.

* * *

They find the aftermath of Isolde's rampage throughout the ancient monastery.

It is a slaughter. Bodies choke the halls. Doric recognises Mesa's handiwork: the pinpoint precision of an exacting brand of butchery. And not just the Dax. The courtiers and the musicians, the traders and the cooks. People they have known their entire lives.

In mute horror they follow the trail of corpses, back toward the Grotto.

None were spared.

As her Liset departs, Mesa's golden armour is painted in blood. Her Regulators glowing red hot like a furnace. She had stalked the halls in silence, the only sound her deliberate footfalls and the chattering echo of the Regulators against the high vaulted ceiling. The screams linger with her, even now.

Isolde doesn't care. They made their choice. Serving the monsters who would wear them as puppets. Each of them are complicit. Each of them deserve justice.

Isolde thinks of Sohren, alone on the Barge surrounded by Dax. She thinks of ailing Lord Septimus, of what plans he and their other Gilded Masters had in store, should they too grow sick and old in time.

Her resolves only hardens.

The task ahead is clear.

* * *

Isolde is gone by the time they reach the Grotto. There is no note, no parting message. Kael and Sohren are missing entirely. There is nothing he can do for them.

Doric knows the totality of Isolde's rage. In truth he shares it, but he masters it.

Isolde must be stopped.

For her own sake, if nothing else.

Doric resolves to find her first. He and Sara track her Liset's signature. Yet they are too late, always too late.

It is a scene that will be repeated throughout the Origin System. Doric and Sara will arrive at the next forgotten fortress, to find the same carnage repeated. Many of these bases are mercifully abandoned before Isolde descends upon them. So many more are not.

In each fortress, Doric checks the Library. Where the rest of the corridors are ablaze, their standards defaced, their ayatan sculptures broken and scattered across the floor.

Yet the Libraries are always intact. The books are left untouched. Tomes of poetry are even missing: each one a memento of yet another purging slaughter.

Left in the heart of each Library is an _Ars Bellica_ set.

Each time the pieces shift. Isolde is continuing their game, alone.

Doric tracks the moves, discerning her intentions.

It is a record. With each fortress destroyed, another piece is removed from the board.

Sara watches as Doric examines the particular disposition of the pieces on the board.

It is a finishing action; a pincer movement. There is but a single move left to make.

Doric examines it sadly, as Mirage steps closer.

"What is it?" Sara askes.

Doric looks at her, lips taut. He borrows an expression from another game entirely.

"Checkmate."

* * *

Isolde finds Septimus in a forgotten cave on Earth.

The cavern is abandoned. The only guards present have fallen on their swords as one. Their skulls grin up at her from their heaped armour.

The Orokin's twisted secret will be taken to their graves.

Mesa stalks into the cave. Isolde has stripped her Warframe of its finery. It is a ragged mess; an oilcloth tied over its face where the finer detailing used to be. In time she will rebuild it, reshaping it in an image better suited to the machine-like focus she has dedicated to her bloody quest.

Septimus wheezes atop the roughly hewn throne. The machine behind him resembles a fluted organ; golden and splendid, bronzed with time and age. Tubes and pipes of all shapes and sizes snake from it and into his gaunt, hunched frame.

He is but a husk, a wretched thing. His hair is lank, his skin droops from the bone.

Mesa spares one look over her shoulder.

There is a shimmer of light as Isolde steps free of the Frame, padding across the floor of the cave. She rises up to the throne room, looking down at him. She feels no pity, no remorse.

Septimus burbles and rasps nonsense up at her. His pupils are milky white, long since without sight. He giggles inanely; the sound a wet shuddering against the tubes that force his mouth open. The Tenno's nose wrinkles. The Golden Lord has fouled himself countless times. He has been left to rot.

Isolde calmly her hands upon the tubing. Her fingers clench and twist.

She tears the pipe free of his throat. Blood and skittering teeth spatter across the floor.

The support organ locks in place with a resounding clunking sigh, finally at rest.

Silence fills the chamber once more.

Eventually the Tenno sets something at the base of the throne.

Then Isolde turns, and walks away.

* * *

The cave is overgrown by the time Doric and Sara come across it, six months later.

The machinery is threaded with vines, dappled with ivy and speckled moss.

Lord Septimus is little more than a grinning skeleton, that has all but grown into the lichen coating the throne. Earth's ravenous plant life spares no one.

An _Ars Bellica_ board is set at the foot of the throne, beside an ancient mahogany box.

The board itself is empty, its pieces neatly collected and placed back in the box.

The message to Doric is clear. Their private conversation is at an end.

The game is concluded.

There is no satisfaction, no true closure in Isolde's vengeance.

But The House Eternal has been eradicated, its fading embers finally extinguished.

Now they can rest, knowing that the twisted house that raised them is gone forever.

Or so they think.


	45. Chapter 45

" _In the end, could there have been any other outcome?_

 _The Empire was tired. Long had it grown complacent, arrogant and slothful; bloated from its own excess. Exhausted from endless days lived without meaning; free of hardship, bereft of purpose. We were not prepared to be challenged. From this collective lethargy sprung weakness. An ensnaring, insidious weed._

 _This is why we were created._

 _We, the House Eternal. The seed that survives the storm, long after the tree has fallen. Our agents are widespread, our roots deep. In time our efforts will bear fruit. We will rise again, and flourish._

 _There is so much to be done. The Grineer horde maraud freely, their numbers unchecked. The Merchant Guilds continue to gorge themselves on the war economy; swelling their coffers even as their people starve. The rest of our once-great civilisation live in squalor, eking out an existence throughout the scattered colonies._

 _We recognise the war that grips the Rail. The endless struggle between those scavengers who would bicker over our ashes; picking at the bones of what once was, and shall never be again. Unless we act._

 _We are the House Eternal: the ultimate contingency._

 _We shall not be found wanting."_

\- Vitruvian 2-2

* * *

Parson-Luk sweated as he helped Brakarr to his feet.

The Grineer rose shakily; almost bringing an entire shelf of equipment down on top of them as he clung to it for support. His breathing still carried a wet rasp that alarmed the Ostron. He was a simple hunter. There was only so much he could do.

Brakarr stumbled forward. His hand shot out, gripping the tarp that shrouded the object in the centre of the shed. The tarp wrenched free as Brakarr went down on his knee, heavily. The Ostron cursed him, fretting and fussing.

"You lumbering mule! I said take it slow!"

Brakarr didn't hear a word. He was too busy staring.

The hover-limo was a grand thing: with a snarling chrome bonnet, stencilled in the livery of one of the Corpus Guilds. Small faith flags adorn the bonnet of the car. There was visibly nothing wrong with, but for a tiny scratch on one of its doors.

Brakarr and Parson-Luk look at the limo. They look at each other.

The Ostron scratched his head, wincing.

"There's no way you'll fit, Surah."

Brakarr snorted. He punched his fist clean through the window.

There was a pealing squeal of tortured metal as Brakarr tore the roof of the car clean off.

The Grineer didn't so much climb aboard as flop gracelessly onto the back seat. Such was his weight that the limo groaned on its landing struts. Brakarr propped his feet up on the back of the front seat, his hands resting on the scabbed belly of his war rig. He gave the Ostron a victorious grin that was entirely lost behind his faceplate.

"Brakarr fit."

Parson-Luk scowled at him.

"Wait here."

The Ostron readied himself before he stepped out the door. He smoothly unclipped his earrings; tying his necklace and beads together so that which rattled was made silent. He mired grease on his high cheekbones, matting the skin and dulling its surface. Finally, he wrapped a scarf around his mouth.

Then he slipped into the smoke, and vanished into the gloom like a rumour.

* * *

Captain Theo Plun escalated his crew to a war footing. He crossed to the heart of the bridge, stepping up to his command throne. The armour rig encased his tattooed face in layer after layer of inter-locking plating. He was a tall and imposing figure. Had been bred for the role, in a very literal sense.

Encased by the box-like helmet, he looked even more imposing.

"I want those barges destroyed, immediately." Plun ordered. "Is the second wave prepared?"

"Standing by." His XO confirmed.

"Good. Prepare firing solutions."

There was a commotion in one of the crew pits. Plun rose to his feet, irritated by the distraction.

"New orders received, Captain!" one of the crewmen said, looking up from his console. "We're to hold position until further notice."

"We're in an active deployment!" Captain Plun thundered. "On whose authority?!"

As the answer came, Theo Plun was glad of the helmet. The colour drained from his face entirely.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his jumpsuit reflexively.

"I see. Very well. Tell the Board the message has been received, with thanks. All units, stand by until further notice."

* * *

The Tenno stood looking at each other.

The air was leaden, preciously brittle. Nobody spoke.

Telin's voice cut in over the intercom, making them jump.

"Uh, I hate to interrupt the secret meeting of the solemn Tenno association, but we've a problem here."

They hurried for the bridge.

* * *

The hunter lay low on the roof of the utility shed, all but invisible between the boxy air processors and depowered holo-boards. Parson-Luk played his spyglass from one side of the horizon to the other, in a measured sweep.

The Corpus army, while rattled, began to rally. They garrisoned the remains of Watch Control, which by this point more resembled a melted heap of slag than anything else. The hunter picked out crewmen looting work tools from the fallen Solaris that still littered the surface of the ziggurat. They hacked at the rock, trying to dig their way through to the central elevator shaft. The MOA formed a defensive perimeter, as their biological masters toiled with religious fervour. For all zeal, the rubble was going to hold them for some time. Parson-Luk frowned.

There was no sign of Isolde. He swept the spyglass upwards.

The barges then. The speed at which they fled the smoking wreckage told him enough.

That was their exit. Their best shot of getting out of here. Of getting home.

There was a sudden rumbling roar. Parson-Luk spun around.

"Ito-da!"

He rolled off the shed and took shelter right as the Orokin Barge's impulse drives surged to life. The shockwave sent a storm cloud of dust and billowing smoke washing over him. He choked and spluttered, eyes streaming.

All was darkness, swirling black flog. And shimmering through the murk, that gilded Barge, finally blazing to life.

* * *

Telin watched the beast rise up through the black smoke. A gilded brute, it stood full three times larger than the _Severance._ Majestic and proud, it oozed elegant menace. Telin had never seen anything of its like before.

Most tech he saw was of Corpus design: utilitarian, rectangular in aspect. Sophisticated certainly, but familiar. The Grineer wrecks they looted were altogether more cumbersome. Built for utilitarian war making, they tended to weather surface impact better. As alien and crude as they were, Telin understood them; they still seemed somewhat predictable.

This was something else entirely. It was ancient. An antique, a piece of ribbed art wrought from materials unknown. Its prow was an armoured hammerhead. There were no visible turrets of any kind.

That didn't reassure Telin. Not for the merest second.

"Tell me that's not something we need to worry about."

The look on Kael's face told him everything he needed to know.

"Right. Figures." Telin keyed the com. "Eyes up Sobil: that's not a friendly."

"What is these days?" Sobil's dry response crackled. "Standing by."

"Shields forward." Telin instructed.

For all the good it did.

Kael saw the glow first. Had seen it before, a lifetime before, in the debris field above the planet's surface. He shouted a warning. Pohld's hands jolted the controls.

There was a blinding light. Something slapped the _Severance_ off-course. Everyone screamed. Pohld arms were all but wrenched from their sockets as he wrestled the controls. Across the ship, hatches blew inward. Pipes burst and flooded corridors with broiling steam or coolant that scalded flesh from bone. The energy cells overloaded; blowing the weapon crews clean across the room. Teico's console all but exploded, hissing sparks and fizzling.

The shield's collapsed in an instant. Engineering reports were a bloodbath of red system failures.

How the _Severance_ remained airborne was a testament to Pohld's skill and the robustness of the ship's armour plating. Its surface was scorched, shorn of turrets and much of its starboard armour plating. It wobbled in the air, vomiting angry smoke in several places.

The shot had not been aimed at the _Severance_ at all.

The _Forward Transaction_ was simply gone. The air was filled with flaming shards of mangled debris that chunked down across the ruined Upper Tier like meteorites.

Telin clambered back into his command throne.

"Report!" he rasped.

Stren was unconscious, a wicked bump visibly swelling on his bleeding forehead. Kelpo took his post.

"Shields down, hull breaches on three decks." There was more data than he could process. "Mass casualties."

"Weapons?"

Kelpo just shook his head in despair.

"Power to engines. Pohld get us out of here!"

"Working on it Chief!"

Pohld gritted his teeth as he pushed the throttle. The engines audibly wheezed.

"Pohld!" Telin bristled. The _Severance_ was barely limping through the air.

"Trying, Captain! Any faster and the core's going to blow!"

A voice cut in over the open broadcast line. The accent was clipped, as measured and polished as Kael and Isolde.

"To the crew of the _Severance Package_ , power down immediately. Any further resistance will be summarily dealt with. There will be no further warnings."

Pohld glanced at Telin, sweating. Telin was stricken, his face a conflicted mask of frustration. They had been so close!

A heavy metal hand set itself on the back of his command throne.

Volt looked down at him.

"This is our fight, Telin Voss. You've done all you can. Land the ship."

Telin nodded, numbly. He hissed through his teeth.

"Put her down, Pohld. Teico, get me a casualty report. I want repair details moving asap."

Kelpo looked at Kael.

"I hope you know what you're doing, kid."

Volt looked at him, the Frame's domelike head impassive.

"So do I."

* * *

Volt moved quickly as the _Severance_ began a trembling descent to the ruins of the Upper Tier.

The Liset lay abandoned in the main cargo hold, lost amidst so many other looted bits of salvage. Its systems were entirely dead, and the crews had stripped samples from the desiccated hull. Kael clambered aboard, all but marching to the chamber where the Somatic Link had encased him in a cryo-pod so many centuries before.

The link itself had been stripped for parts. The pod was forgotten, just another lump of metal the scavengers could trade for scrap. He had been in a hurry, when he fled the base on Mars.

He was in a hurry now, but there were some detours worth making.

The sword lay where it had been ever since he awoke, forgotten at the base of the cryo-pod.

Sohren's sword, glinting at the bottom of the casket. A priceless artefact, entirely overlooked in the carnage of the preceding days.

Volt picked it up, feeling its familiar weight in his hands.

Now, he was ready.

Now he could see this through.

* * *

The _Severance_ kissed down in the open clearing; a sorry wreck.

The Corpus army watched them from afar, set on their dig. They had their orders.

The Orokin Barge's belly hatch opened as it kissed down a mere five hundred metres from the _Severance_. The architecture and motion of the landing gear was seamless, almost organic.

The Warframes stepped out onto the smoking battlefield, beneath the shadow of the ravaged _Severance_. The colony around them lay in ruin, a bystander in a war that long predated its existence.

The four Tenno paused, watching.

An honour guard files down the ramp of the Orokin Barge. They were golden warriors, dressed in splendid armour not seen in centuries. The Dax carried long halberds, adorned with the banners of The House Eternal. They lined the ramp, fanning out in a broad formation. It was bewildering to see so many of them still alive and together in a single place.

Dread and nostalgia fill the Tenno in equal measure.

"This is it." Isolde said. Mesa's targeting monocle was already logging distances, noting trajectories and windage.

"It is." Kael nodded.

"Tell me you have a plan beyond killing everything." Doric rolls Atlas' heavy shoulders with a click.

Isolde didn't reply.

"I have a plan." Sara announced.

They all looked at her. Mirage planted hands on her hips defensively.

"What? Don't give me that look. I do."

"Do share." Doric invites her with a gracious bow.

"Please." Isolde nodded coolly. "By all means."

Eythan Dax approached, flanked on both sides by a personal guard.

Sara spoke while they were out of earshot, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

"We let them take us aboard. They bring us to their leader. We kill him. Then we kill the _rest_ of them. Then take the ship, save the colony. Live forever as heroes. Simple."

"You do know that's just another variation of _killing everything_ , don't you?" Doric observed.

"Works for me." Isolde shrugged.

"Hear, Hear." Kael murmured, watching the Dax come closer and closer. "Isolde, a favour; if I may."

"Yes, Kael?"

"Restrain yourself. I know you want blood. And blood is surely coming. But bide your time. There are lives at stake."

Mesa, tense as a coiled spring, nodded after a moment.

"You have my word. But when the time comes, make no mistake: that Dax is mine to bury, and mine alone."

"Very well."

Eythan Dax stopped a hundred feet from the Tenno.

The Tenno stepped forward to meet him. Physically the Warframes cut more imposing figures, though the Orokin guards did not lack size or muscle.

If Eythan Dax was intimidated in any way, it did not show. His armour had been cleaned, but the bruising from his duel with Vern was evident. His helmet was notably dented on one side.

Kael stepped forward. He could feel the hatred radiating from Isolde.

Better that he do the talking.

"Eythan Dax." Kael bowed slightly.

"Tenno Kael." The Dax returned the bow. "My Lord wishes me to inform you that any further resistance will result in the immediate destruction of your companions, and the subsequent and indeed total destruction of this colony from orbit. None will be spared. All will be ash."

"The Corpus won't like that." Doric remarked.

"This is _our_ colony, not theirs." Eythan Dax countered coldly. "To do with as we see fit. And, I can assure you, my Lord does not possess a capacity for understatement."

"Your Lord will be a corpse, and you along with him." Isolde hissed.

"Isolde." Kael warned reproachfully.

Eythan Dax smiled coldly, bemused at the exchange.

"I'm sure. But first, a bit of housekeeping." Eythan Dax extended a hand, looking at Isolde brazenly. "My sword?"

Isolde didn't budge.

Kael looked at her.

Mesa begrudgingly cast the Dax's sword on the ground before her. It snapped smoothly up into the Dax's hands with a magnetic hum, then clicked back into its sheath.

"Splendid. Now, if you'll follow me."

He turned on his heel, and led them toward the waiting ramp.

Telin and the others watched helplessly on the bridge as the Tenno disappeared into the belly of the ancient ship, surrounded on all sides by warriors of The House Eternal.


	46. Chapter 46

" _And so the time for further recordings is over. The path ahead is clear. Actions will determine our outcome. Theirs, and mine._

 _I go now to meet them. I must admit that I am, to a certain degree, nervous._

 _Long have I pictured this moment. Of bonds renewed. Of an order restored._

 _And reunions."_

\- Vitruvian 2:1

* * *

The Dax led them up the ramp and through a golden corridor threaded with loops of flowing silver.

The threshold ahead was dark. The Tenno stepped into the gloom together.

Into the past.

It was as it had always been. The far wall was a giant banner of the House Eternal; bronze and splendid, set into the walls; in stark bas-relief.

The throne room was dimly lit. Even in the gloom, its layout was all too familiar; etched in their collective memory. They could see the steps of the dais, the stonework lovingly wrought into the deck. Seamlessly integrated. It was if the House Eternal's reception hall had simply been transplanted into the heart of the ship itself. The resources required to reproduce such a scene were staggering. Shallow pools of water edged the chamber, underlit by lamps that cast dancing reflections against the ceiling. Brilliant orange coy jinked and flitted, inane mouths jawing endlessly.

A familiar voice called to them in the dark. In the clipped tones of the Orokin dialect. Precise and calm; tinged with a gravel that skirted the realm between rasp and growl. And yet still, familiar.

"What happened to those, who buried our Empire? Did we pursue them, put them to the sword? Enact swift and terrible justice, as the Seven demanded for countless generations?"

The four Tenno of The House Eternal stepped forward. The Dax filed in two separate directions, taking assigned positions along the edge of the chamber, moving as one.

The voice continued, rich and melodious.

"No. We let them sleep. Watched as our civilisation became ruin, as our people starved and our borders crumbled from within. We bade our time: for a moment when magnificence became memory; the truth of our power little more than a faded footnote of a history long forgotten."

The shadow arose from his throne, tall and imposing.

"Now that wait is ended. Now, we are ascendant."

The figure stepped forward, into the light.

Sohren stared down at them, a soft smile on his face.

"My Brothers and Sisters." Sohren bowed graciously. "I bid you welcome. My, but it has been some time."

It was Sohren but not as they remembered.

He was older. A man, fully grown; handsome and proud. His face was lined with laughter lines, his eyes pinched with a knowing humour. Long hair spilled back down to his shoulders in a golden mane, tied in a warrior's bun. He wore the armour of a Dax, adorned with that flowing cloak of pristine white. Twinned nikana adorned his left hip, an unusual pairing. Their hilts were studded with gemstones, that danced in the half-light.

Sohren regarded them, a wondrous smile frozen upon his face.

The Warframes looked at one another. As one, the Tenno materialised before their frames, stepping forward hesitantly. It was instinctual. Isolde and Kael, taken aback. Sara, her eyes saucers of wonder.

Only Doric stood back, arms folded. When Sara went to rush forward Doric stopped her, a forestalling hand clamping on her arm. The expression on his face was grave.

Sohren blinked twice, the smile faltering ever so slightly.

"Is something the matter, friends?" he asked.

" _Everything_ is the matter." Doric retorted, as he released Sara's arm. "This is _not_ the man you remember, Tenno. Not in the ways that count."

"Wise Doric, you wound me." Sohren descended the steps, as the lights in the chamber glowed brighter, responding to his every movement. "It is true that I have changed. Aged, certainly. I awoke many years ago. Decades, in fact. But I can assure you I am a Tenno, same as you. The same Tenno that trained with you, served with you. Bled with you."

Sohren stopped before Kael. A gauntleted hand swallowed Kael's shoulder. Kael stared at it, then at Sohren.

"Friend Kael. I still remember my fury, when they ambushed you above the planet's surface. Such loyalty. Know that such an order came from Septimus, and Septimus alone. He paid the price for his treachery."

Kael looked at Doric, entirely uncertain. His taller friend's face was pinched with a scowl.

Before Doric could speak, Isolde snarled and started forward. Criss-crossing halberds blocked her path with a resounding flash. The Dax had moved with lightning speed.

"Enough lies. You wear their armour. You command _them_." Isolde spat at Eythan Dax. "Those that enslaved us. Used us as a _weapon_!"

"A weapon that stopped the Sentient." Sohren replied levelly. "That saved us from certain destruction."

"So it's _us_ now?" Doric questioned softly.

Sohren snorted in disbelief.

"I see. You think they got to me. That Septimus wears me, like some sorry _puppet._ " Sohren's smile was rueful. "For all your wisdom, Friend Doric, you think so _little_ of me. I'm just a swordsman to you, a dutiful soldier."

Doric looked at him with a grave sense of pity.

"Any wisdom I might possess is born of research, Septimus. We know all about the Orokin, and their wretched Continuity. What they did to Sohren. What they would have done to us all, in time." Doric shook his head. "No, I see your lies for what they are. The man who was our friend is dead."

Sohren looked at each of them in turn. The suspicion and grief etched upon their faces. He smiled, reassuringly.

"Far from it, Friend Doric. I am very much alive. For years I have waited for this moment, when the five of us might be together once more. You were right about me once. I _was_ a mere soldier. A dutiful servant. Now I command the warriors of The Last Cadre, loyal and true."

The Dax thumbed the bottom of their halberds off the ground in dutiful response.

"To what end?" Doric asked, warily.

"Why to the only end that matters." Sohren blinked. "The restoration of the Empire."

An invisible storm cloud gathered in the air above the Tenno. An electric tension.

"I don't know if you noticed, Sohren, but that ship sailed centuries ago." Sara replied. "Little more than old ruins and the occasional broken sculpture."

"It is true that the Origin System is in a state of flux." Sohren granted, gesturing from his left to his right. "The Grineer armies on one side, the Corpus and their fleets on the other. But we are not helpless."

Sohren turned and waved a gauntleted hand.

A holographic display swirled to life above them. It showed the planet in exacting detail. The orbital defence grid, the various ships in traffic to and from the habitable portions of the planet. The _Dominant Position_ , hovering in high orbit over Prospect 141. The isolated settlements and remote factories; the atmospheric facilities and lonely prison colonies where so many Solaris eked out a miserable existence deep beneath the planet's surface. The level of information was unprecedented.

"Tactical reports, fed live from the Board's most secure internal network."

Sohren waved his hand again.

The view spread out. A wider view of the Origin System now. Venus and Jupiter. Frozen Europa. The Corpus strongholds on Neptune. Trade routes and links throughout the Rail. Real time feeds on ship movements and currency exchanges. A tableau that could only be compiled by many lifetimes of research.

"How did you get this?" Doric breathed.

"I have been around a _very_ long time, Friend Doric. As the Corpus grew and flourished, so too did my own network of spies and infiltrators. The Merchant Guilds rely on proxies so often that replacing them is easier than one might expect." Sohren's smile was ruthless. "Board membership has its privileges, I can assure you."

"So you're one of them now?" Sara asked, visibly sickened.

"Only when it suits me." Sohren replied. "And right now it suits me. Observe."

Sohren opened fist and the display exploded, showing the Origin System in its totality.

He swiped his hand in the air. Flashpoints and major conflict zones rippled a ruby red, spreading like a ravenous cancer. It was in constant state of flux.

"The System is in a deadlock. An impasse. The Corpus have the material, manpower and logistics necessary to sustain a successful campaign against the Grineer. To prosecute a war fully, and win; with the right direction and sustained commitment. They choose not to, of course, because the present conflict is measured, predictable. _Profitable_ , above all else. The Grineer invade, and are repelled. The Corpus expand, and are in turn met by a corresponding counter-invasions in return. Each side lacking the strategic foresight, each side ably assisted in their inadequacy by the Tenno and their Lotus, a wild card who explores no agenda but her own."

Sohren shook his head, sadly.

"Equilibrium is kept, and the Board's credit balance continues to sky-rocket. Nothing changes."

Sohren clenched his fist. The busy display vanished in an instant.

"I would see this deadlock broken."

"How?" Doric asked.

"There is a vacuum in the System. An absence of leadership only we can fill. We alone have access to Orokin technology necessary to upset the balance. We can't act in the open, not directly. But the Corpus Navy is a powerful tool. My agents are everywhere, well positioned; waiting for the right signal, the right moment. We can turn the tide, marshal the Corpus' forces from within. A guiding force. An invisible hand."

"You're right. You're so much more than a soldier." Doric shook his head. "You're a mad man. And an arrogant fool, to think you can control the Corpus."

Sohren's eyes blazed at that.

"The only fools I see are the ones standing before me! What must it take for you to see sense, Tenno? What more can I say?!"

Finally Kael spoke.

"There's nothing you can say." The Tenno's voice was low as he studied the floor, despondent. "I knew Sohren. How he thought, how he fought. He led us; not because he was ambitious, or for any dreams of conquest or glory. But because he was the best. Not for him, these lofty speeches and grandiose displays."

Kael looked up, meeting Sohren's gaze openly.

"He would never call us fools, as you do now."

Sohren's expression became granite.

"Nothing has changed, Brother. It is me, your sword-brother. Your friend."

Kael drew the blade from Volt's sheath. Sohren's ancient sword scraped free. The Dax's sheathes shivered as they drew steel as one.

Kael ignored them. He held the nikana levelled at Sohren, heedless of the dozen swords and spear tips pointed at him.

"Prove it."

* * *

Parson-Luk grunted as he lugged the rotary cannon into the back of the now open-top limousine. Brakarr gleefully took it in his hands, balancing it over the back as he settled into a position that allowed him sweep it left to right at his leisure.

Comfort _and_ destruction. Two of his favourite things.

The Ostron had seen the cataclysmic beam of light that wiped the _Forward Transaction_ from existence. Had witnessed the _Severance's_ fitful landing, and tracked the Tenno as they were marched into the belly of the Orokin vessel.

They had two options, as he saw it.

They could sit here and wait for the Corpus Navy to find them, eventually.

Or they could do what they did best. Stir up some real trouble.

He settled into the driver's seat. Settled a pair of dust goggles over his eyes. He keyed the ignition sequence.

The Ostron grinned tightly as the engine growled to life.

Decision made.

* * *

The silence on the bridge was deafening. Moans of pain filled the air. The crew tended to each other as best they could, but supplies were exhausted.

Telin and Kelpo stood by the observation window. A great crack was riven through it. The ship was held together by rigging tape at this point.

"So what's the plan?" Kelpo asked.

"You're asking me? Still?"

"Well you've gotten us this far."

Telin studied the Orokin ship through his binoculars.

"That wasn't planning. That was more…" Telin hunted for the word, "…improvisation."

"Well then let's _improvise_ some more."

Telin sighed, lowering the binoculars. His morose eyes never left the Orokin ship.

"We can't take that monster in the air. Not a hope."

"Then we take it on the ground."

That was Stren. His head was bandaged, his face a swollen cross-hatch of indented skin where he had lain face down on the checker plate of the deck.

"You're awake." Kelpo observed.

"Also crazy." Telin added.

"No Captain, I'm _upset_. Far more dangerous."

The stocky weapons engineer scratched at his jowls as he peered through his eye-scope.

"There's only six guards outside." The older man mused.

"Six monsters." Kelpo countered. "Look at them. Their thighs are as wide as my torso."

"They don't look armed."

"Those giant spear things aren't weapons?"

"Guns lad. I mean guns."

"You saw what their ship did to the _Forward_. No way in hell they _don't_ have guns. We'll be cut to pieces before we cross the gap."

Telin tutted in mock-surprise.

"Kelpo Marr, afraid of a fight?"

"Never. I'm just saying we're scavengers, not career soldiers."

"No, you're right. We're not soldiers. Not scavengers, either. Not anymore." Telin's smile spread to a wolfish grin. " _Pirates._ "

* * *

Sohren held up a hand, calming his honour guard.

"Stay your hands." He ordered sternly, "The Tenno are not to be harmed."

The Dax lowered their blades, hesitantly. Sohren looked at Kael, intently.

"What did I say to you, when we last met?"

Kael didn't reply. The nikana never wavered. Sohren answered for him, as he stepped up toward the blade, never once breaking eye contact.

"You have command of the Cell." Sohren said, "Until I return."

Sohren smiled slightly. His nose was mere inches from the nikana. Still he did not blink as he spoke.

"I said those words then. I meant them. Yet I would ask you to hold onto that sword just a little longer."

Kael blinked. Finally he lowered the sword, entirely uncertain.

"Why?"

"Because I need you at my side, Kael. My most loyal friend, my most trusted lieutenant. There is much work to be done. My place is here, at the head of The House Eternal. I need you in the field. Will you help me, one last time?"

"More Orokin tricks, Kael." Doric warned. "This man is Septimus! Don't listen to his lies!"

"Are they lies when I say that the system lies in ruin? That the people cry out for something more than abject squalor? The Rail is broken, the Grineer maraud freely, setting upon the scattered colonies like wild dogs. You've seen the privations inflicted by the Corpus and their pitiless rule. Is that acceptable to you?"

"How is it any different to the Orokin?" Sara asked. She stepped around the Dax that surrounded Kael, padding softly to the base of the steps, looking up at the throne.

"We fought and killed, again and again. So they could rule in their golden houses on their golden thrones. Choosing who lived, and who died, and when." Sara's eyes could melt armour plating as she fixed Sohren with a glare. "A tyrant is a tyrant, I don't care how shiny they are."

Sara looked at Kael, surrounded on all sides by Sohren's bodyguards. She smiled at him, despite the tension.

"You've only been awake a short time. You haven't seen all that's out there. The good that's been done. It's not _all_ squalor. The other Tenno, they're out there, making a difference. It's slow. It's painful, but we're building something, together. Something better."

"The Relays. The Solaris. Those scavengers who found you. We can help them." Doric added, "But on _our_ terms. Not his."

Sohren scowled.

"You forget yourselves, Tenno." The frustration in his voice was clear. "We have a sworn duty; an oath to The House Eternal. Our place is here!"

"Yours, perhaps." Isolde took a step back toward her Warframe. "Me? Frankly I'm long past fighting for anyone but myself. I only know that nothing good comes from this House, its symbols and its pomp. So the Orokin are no more. _Good._ The galaxy is better for it."

Isolde glanced at Doric, Kael and Sara.

"I don't know about you, but I've a job to finish. A promise to keep."

"And what promise is that, exactly?" Sohren asked.

"The simple kind." Isolde spared a glare at Eythan Dax, a slow smile spreading on her face. "A bit of old fashioned vengeance."

"I've seen your handiwork." Sohren scoffed. "Revenge? You've already _had_ it."

Isolde scowled.

"Not even close."

She vanished in a burst of light. Mesa sprang to life. The Regulators whipped into her hands. Clicked as they locked squarely onto Eythan Dax's head.

Sohren sighed and waved a hand.

Mesa locked in place, frozen in place by a beam of light. Quivering with impotent fury.

The Cell looked up. The vaulted ceiling contained all manner of hidden projectors. Similar beams of light encased the other Frames. They shuddered in place, becoming twisted statues locked in rictus poses like some twisted museum.

The Cell came to the same realisation at once.

Here, in the heart of the Orokin ship, their Warframes were useless.

Sohren chuckled in pity.

"Warframe Technology. Orokin Technology. There is no _difference_." Sohren tutted, as he ascended the steps, turning to address them all.

"Make no mistake, Tenno: this is The House Eternal."

Sohren squeezed his fist.

Mesa fell to her knees shuddering in silent agony.

Sohren's expression was stone, his voice matter-of-fact.

"You will honour your vows, or die as oathbreakers."


	47. Chapter 47

" _The Board's position remains clear. Pending instructions, the_ Dominant Position _is to hold an observation pattern and standby for further instructions._

 _No further action is required at this time."_

\- instructions relayed to Captain Theo Plun, after his thirteenth request for new orders

* * *

Kef Mehrino sweated as he bundled himself down yet another smelly pipe. He had no idea where he was, where he was going. He had scurried in the dark for what felt like hours, scrambling from one access hatch to the next. His hands shivered through his velvet gloves, swollen from the effort. His fine clothes were soaked with sweat, flecked with rust and oil and sewage; filthy from the arduous ascent.

Up, all he knew was that he had to keep going up.

The higher he went, the sooner he could regain contact with the Board. Maybe even salvage his position. A victim of the rebellion, who made a daring escape. Some kind of survivor narrative. They might even reward him.

The thought spurred him ever onward.

He rounded the next corner.

A Watch-Control fire team filled the corridor. They were a Low Tier unit: seasoned, isolated; fighting a determined guerrilla war against the uprising ever since the Data Stacks came down. Their drone support was gone. They were bloodied and hardened, their armour visibly dented. But the iconography on their suits was clear. They were Corpus soldiers, and true.

"Oh, thank the Void you're here." Kef Mehrino sighed in relief, lowering his hands.

A rifle butt slammed him into darkness.

"What do we do with him?" One crewman asked, his speech rendered a warble through his helmet filter.

"Sell him?" The crewman shrugged. "Maybe they'll give us a reward."

"Fine. But I get his boots."

* * *

Neera splashed heavily as she dropped into the coolant.

The environment suit the Solaris had rigged her with was a poor fit. She was swimming in its rubbery folds. Still, it kept the searing kiss of the coolant from her skin.

Sparks and the other rebels waded ahead of her, small pilot drones lighting the way.

Ahead, the transports awaited them. There were more transports than survivors. Solaris United agents stood by: some mechanised, others almost more alien behind their rebreathers. One of them pulled her aboard.

"Is this it?" the Solaris Agent asked as he settled her down in a restraint chair, pressing a warm drink into her hands.

Neera nodded, exhausted.

"The Data Mass?"

"It's here." Neera's head hit the back of the chair, as exhaustion took hold. "We got it."

Her breath shuddered as the hatch sealed, bathing them in comforting darkness.

"We got it."

* * *

It was difficult, devising a plan under threat of Orokin death ray, but Telin was used to certain mitigating factors by this point. Necessity, being the most pressing. At the very least, it gave the crew something to focus on.

They divided their efforts.

The _Severance_ needed to be airworthy. Engineer Lorna and her crew had survived the blast, but needed every spare hand available to fast-track repairs. Their supplies were all but expended, with non-essential systems being cannibalised to accommodate the myriad patchwork, jury-rigged solutions she was devising, seemingly on the fly. Which was good, because flying was generally the end-goal here. Teico would nominally command the ship, with Pohld at the helm.

That left twelve of them for the raid team. Telin and Kelpo, because it was "their idea" (and a "terrible one" by Pohld's ever-encouraging estimation). Stren volunteered, primarily because Stren was Stren, and wanted to stove in the skull of an Orokin, just to say he had. That, and there were precious few weapon systems left for him to manage. Any remaining power cells had long since been repurposed for more essential systems.

The rest of his men were the survivors of the earlier boarding actions. Some wanted revenge for their fallen shipmates, others were driven by curiosity; enticed by the prospect of seeing an Orokin vessel first hand.

Being a product of Corpus society, all were seduced by promises of treasure.

Weaponry was left to each team member's discretion. This was ultimately a boarding action. Audacious? Yes. Suicidal? Very probably. But short range killing power was the order of the day. Kelpo favoured a flak cannon and some kind of snub-nosed pistol of indeterminate origin. Stren opted for a combi-weapon, a chemical thrower welded to a plasma-powered rivet cannon.

Telin kept it simple. He favoured the Detron, together with a wicked looking hand-axe that had been cobbled together by one of the more morbid members of the crew. HWK-44 had fully repaired itself, and he spent the little preparation time they had upgrading its offensive armament. He hummed as he worked the plasma torch, making final adjustments. The routine was familiar to him. It calmed his frazzled nerves. The fear that turned his belly to stone, and kept his heart racing.

One by one they made ready, bracing themselves for one final effort.

* * *

Doric and Sara held their breath, as they watched Mesa writhe in silent agony at the foot of the steps.

"Did you honestly think I would let you walk in here with your Warframes without any discernible means to counter them?" Sohren shook his head, incredulous as he circled Isolde. "Have you forgotten _everything_ you were taught?"

Isolde said nothing. She was fully immobilised. Sohren continued to lecture them, one finger raised in the air.

"Of all the Orokin's weapons, we Tenno were the most dangerous. If there was one _single_ lesson to be learned from The Collapse, it is that _none_ of us are invincible."

Sohren stopped speaking abruptly.

A blade had appeared at his throat. The Dax flinched in response, all too late. Even without his Frame, Kael was lightning quick.

"Truer words were never spoken." Kael warned Sohren. "Release her."

"Careful, old friend." Sohren smiled as the blade tickled his throat. "That edge is sharp."

"And fast too. Release her, or more than words will spill from you."

"Not unless I have assurances that she restrains herself." Sohren countered, icily calm, "And not while you have a blade at my throat, old friend."

Kael could feel the pain radiating from her Transference Link. He hissed. The blade eased.

Sohren took a step back, massaging his throat, that magnanimous smile still fixed on his face. He snapped his fingers.

Mesa came back to life, toppling to her knees. She looked at Kael. The Regulators remained sheathed. There was a shimmer as Isolde reappeared at Mesa's feet, clinging to her Frame for support, shivering from the invasive pain of the Transference surge.

Sohren paced back up the stairs. He sat back in the throne a healthy distance from Kael, sighing as he settled himself.

"Would it surprise you, to learn that when the time came, I gave myself gladly? I believe in the Empire. In the good that it served. Not all were equal, but there was order. Discipline. A certain code, for warriors like you and I."

Sohren shook his head.

"There is no code anymore. No order, or structure. Only chaos."

"More lies." Doric looked at Kael.

"Sohren never talked this much." Sara agreed.

Sohren scoffed. He didn't seem to be listening. There was something definitely _off_ about him. Kael watched him, not saying a word. His face a blank mask.

"I knew Lord Septimus' designs long before I was chosen. The Orokin's longevity could only come through some form of sacrifice. You think I went in blind? Again, you think so little of me."

Sohren was lost within himself as he continued:

"But Transference is not a two process. And while Septimus was Orokin, and of a formidable mind, the Void was not with him."

Sohren's expression darkened with fury, yet his voice remained eerily serene.

"I crushed his mind like an insect." Sohren mused. "Snapped his will like some _brittle_ twig."

Sohren looked up, snapping back to reality.

"Afterwards I banished my guards back to the ship. Toured the depths of that forbidden place, alone. Saw the mounds of bones of the dead. What became of the Orokin when their mortal vessels reached their natural end. Cast into a pit. Discarded."

Sohren stroked his chin, shaking his head slowly.

"Septimus was not _worthy_ of our service, but his frail husk was not without its uses. I left him for Isolde to find and exact her terrible vengeance. By then the Collapse was fully underway. The Seven were gone, slaughtered at what was to be their finest hour. The Grineer Uprising was in full flame, and what little remained was scattered, indolent; undeserving of redemption or salvation."

"So you hid." Sara shook her head.

"I _waited_ , Sara. For the slate to be wiped clean. For the opportune moment."

Doric let him speak. Tactically he was assessing the number of Dax surrounding them. Still, Kael betrayed no emotion.

"The Corpus provided that very moment. Fleeing traders and scattered refugees at first, bartering simply to survive. They gravitated to the portions of our Empire that best resisted the ravages of the Technocyte Plague and the Grineer warbands that scoured the Rail. Clustering in hubs. Organising."

Sixteen warriors, including Eythan Dax but excluding Sohren. Scenarios played through Doric's mind.

Without access to their Warframes, few ended well.

Sohren's voice continued:

"The trading companies natural became intertwined, flourishing into the Guilds we know today. Organising along strict tenets of code and rigid hierarchy. Solidifying their influence through automated proxies and jealously hoarding essential resources so many of the other Scattered Colonies required. Becoming a power in their own right."

It would not be an even split. Doric knew Eythan Dax well. Of all of Trainer's warriors, he was the most gifted. Sohren alone would demand their full attention. Doric's eye twitched. Kael alone was armed.

"It was easy to win their trust. We had access to all manner of Orokin relics, the very thing they prized the most. From there it was simply a matter of cultivating an avatar to allow us unfettered access to the Board's inner workings. A suggested dig site here, a knowing expedition there. Knowledge is power, and we had more knowledge than any three Board members combined. I mined the House's ancient resources, brokering relics for power."

"And they never suspected you?" Doric asked, his own fascination getting the better of him.

"There were those who came close, certainly. But I am a Tenno, versed in strategy, and my warriors trained Dax; gifted soldiers, spies, assassins; when need be. I had informants everywhere. Infiltrating our opponents, planting discrediting information. We even founded The Exchange: profiting from removing those we ourselves had selected for strategic elimination."

Sohren saw the stricken look on Isolde's face, and smiled.

"Yes, Isolde, you have been working for me for some time. I have followed your newfound career with great interest. That job on Ceres? Marvelous. Truly marvelous."

"All this planning. To what end, truly?" Doric folded his arms. "You can't expect to reveal yourself, and have the Board simply roll over."

"No, The Board members are willful, dangerously self-interested. I decided long ago that we must remain in the dark, unseen. Guiding, cajoling, suggesting. When the time comes, we will leverage the necessary assets. They too will be dealt with."

"You even speak like them." Isolde sounded unwell as she clambered to her feet.

"What can I say? I've had a long time to learn their ways."

Sohren sat forward in his throne, his gauntleted hands open, inviting.

"But enough talk. The Empire can be restored anew. Better than before, I promise you."

Sohren smiled, beatifically.

"I ask one final time: will you help me?"

"What happens if we refuse?" Kael asked.

The smile faded. Sohren's face was stone, his voice grave.

"Then you are my enemy, and I know that our friendship is dead."

Kael smiled faintly at that. The he burst out laughing: a sharp high laugh, almost piercing.

The others looked at him sharply. He was the dutiful lieutenant, ever the stoic soldier; seldom prone to any great emotion.

It was not a happy sound.

"It's a convincing act, I'll give you that, Septimus." Kael shook his head ruefully, "For a moment there I was convinced. Truly, I thought you were Sohren."

"What are you talking about?" Sohren blinked.

Kael's eyes were bright and clear, almost relieved.

"Doubtless much of said is true. But actions speak so much louder than words."

The laughter was gone now.

"A friend would never hold us hostage. Or wipe out a ship of innocents without a second thought. Torture Isolde and her Frame, simply to prove a point."

The Dax tensed as Kael approached the throne.

"Sohren would never harbour such imperial designs, or any grand desire to rule. He was a soldier. Lived as one. _Died_ as one."

Kael flashed the sword in his hands; rolling it about. As he would in the practice yard with Sohren so many centuries before.

Sohren stiffened, his fists tightening on the edges of his throne.

"You're delusion Kael. Your long sleep has addled your mind. I am your friend, your Brother!"

Kael shook his head slowly, ever closing the distance. Serenely he spoke:

"These words are Orokin words. Which them make Orokin lies. Yet they speak a certain truth. They tell me I failed, long ago. That my friend is gone."

That killing stare was in Kael's eyes now. He spoke softly, yet the words carried in the hushed stillness of the chamber.

The Dax fanned out, moving to encircle him, halberds and swords raised. Sohren kept them back, his hand raised. His face a granite mask as he let Kael ascend the steps, one deliberate footfall at a time.

"But you're here, Septimus. That'll do."

Sohren's ancient blade whipped in that slow, hypnotic warm-up loop. Kael's eyes never blinked, never wavered. All emotion buried but for the coldest rage.

"I'll bury _his_ sword in your chest, and in _his_ name, end you _._ In _his_ name, we will bring _ruin_ to The House Eternal and dismantle its proxies, brick by treacherous brick."

Septimus-as-Sohren rose to his feet. He stood head and shoulders taller than Kael. A golden warrior ripped from the canvas of the most heroic tapestry. Imperious. Invincible.

He spat, glowering, as he drew the twin nikana. They whirled and twisted in his hands expertly. The stance was entirely alien to anything Sohren would have favoured.

It only incensed Kael further.

"You're outnumbered." Septimus sneered. "Surrounded in a battle you cannot possibly win. Your Warframes are useless here."

"You forget yourself, _Lord_ Septimus. We are Tenno of the House Eternal, trained by your very best."

Kael settled into a forward guard, settling his feet.

"We don't _need_ Warframes to kill you."


	48. Chapter 48

" _Beware the House Eternal."_

\- Trainer Dax

* * *

The hatch yawned on its hinges as Stren yanked the release lever. Kelpo looked down and swallowed.

It was a thirty foot drop to the ground. Stren went first, huffing as he squeezed his bulk down onto the rear landing skid. The raid team filed down behind him, the zip line twisting as they slid down, gloved hands buzzing. Such was the length of the _Severance_ that they were able to keep the front landing gear between them and the Dax sentries. They helped each other down, one by one; heavy boots kissing down against cold asphalt.

Telin's gloves burned as his feet thumped the deck. He stumbled as he landed. By the time he looked up, properly _saw_ the city at ground level, his jaw fell open.

The colony was in ruins. In the distance, Watch Control slumped, a heap of slag and spilled debris, alight in several places. The Data Stacks, once proud and cold and imperial and majestic were simply gone: their absence from the skyline marked only by a haze of ever-sifting dust.

Telin Voss had never seen the Upper Tier in its full glory. He was a humble scavver: a roughshod, lowly rung on a long and pitiless ladder. Even so, he knew this place may never again recover, such was the extent of the devastation. Once a pristine pillar of commerce and cold, calculated luxury, the Upper Tier was now little more than a charred hellscape. All this from one damned salvage claim.

"Stay focused Cap." Stren whispered as he thumped him on the back. The veteran scavver was all business now. The men and women around them were seasoned frontiersmen, practiced fighters. They moved with a tense urgency, low to the ground as they scurried for the front landing gear.

They stacked before the front landing skid, bundling together in the shadows.

Kelpo swore under his breath.

This low on the ground, the Orokin ship was truly massive. Expansive and majestic. The belly hatch yawned open like some ancient maw, inviting them aboard with an ominous hunger. Waiting to swallow them whole. Which wouldn't be a bad thing, all things considered. That was sort of the plan.

The only problem were the golden giants guarding it.

There was no dusk on Venus, not in the same way there was on Earth. But smoke wreathed everything. Even in the murk, the Dax sentries made for impressive statutes: bulls necks and lean corded muscle; accentuated by ancient gilded armour that burned a ruby amber-gold in the smoky half-light. They stood stock-still and silent, as if carved from ancient stone.

Telin lowered his scope, turning to the others.

"Okay, here's the plan…" Telin began to whisper.

He stopped. They were all listening to something fast approaching. A fierce revving roar. An alarm system, whooping. Absolute chaos, moving at speed.

The Dax broke ranks, heads cocked in confusion.

Kelpo frowned, asking aloud.

"Is that an _engine?_ "

* * *

Parson-Luk snarled in frustration, stabbing at the kaleidoscope of light emanating from the control console. He understood none of the Corpus script. Every conceivable alarm blared and shrilled at him. Intruder alarms, unpaid parking fines, outstanding motor tax and insufficient windscreen fluid: they all bleated separately. The sound was a deafening cacophony of hoots and shrills.

Eventually Brakarr leaned forward from the back seat and drove his fist through it.

The Dax shone bright in the headlights ahead. Plasma bolts spanked off the hood of the limousine, stitching what little was left of the windshield. Biting shards of glass sprayed across the front seat, nicking them both.

"So much for surprise!" Parson-Luk hissed. He floored it.

The Dax were much too quick to ram. For all their size they dove left and right, extraordinarily nimble. He threw the hovercar into a slewing skid, throwing up a cloud of churning smoke and flakes of ash. Presenting Brakarr and his propped rotary cannon with an angle.

It thundered to life, tracer fire searing out and splitting the dark. The Dax were quick, but not faster than a Grineer cannon at full cycle. Bodies jinked and danced as their armour was shredded, all but sawn in half.

Something heavy landed on the bonnet. A Dax, meticulously balanced on the front; halberd in one hand. Poised, ready to strike. Parson-Luk flared the limo's drives, trying to shake him off. Still the golden warrior clung on, teeth gritted; stubbornly determined.

The Ostron hit the brake. Hard. That proved more than the Dax could manage. He was thrown bodily onto the scorched ground. The Ostron smiled cruelly and, with the utmost calm, pressed his foot back on the accelerator.

There was a jolting hollow thump as chrome limousine met golden armour.

An energy blast caught them in the rear nacelle. It simply atomised, throwing the limousine wildly off course. They hit the upturned edge of an old plinth. Metal bit stone, folded. Emergency impact foam blasted from the control console, catching the Ostron's face with an almighty slap. Not for the first time today, Parson-Luk's nose broke.

The car wrapped itself around the plinth. It was a miracle the entire fusion core had not gone up. The Ostron tried prying himself free, blood streaming down his face. Brakarr was nowhere to be seen, had seemingly been thrown from the vehicle entirely. The steaming foam held him in place, half solidifying; clinging to him in great ropey chunks. The trapper tore them free messily, bristling at being ensnared. He was still struggling when he caught something emerging from the gloom in the corner of his eye.

The Dax descended upon him. The energy projector that encircled his wrist was silent, but the halberd in his hands was at the ready, blade glinting.

Parson-Luk ripped the last tendril of safety foam free of his hands. His hands were a blur, drawing a wicked recurve zaw and hurling it with lethal precision.

The halberd flashed, once. The dagger sparked and flew away into the gloom.

Still the Dax marched on, ever closer.

The Ostron's blowgun was at his lips seconds later. His most lethal dart spat forth.

There was a whistle as the dart flitted toward the Dax. The Dax's gauntlet snatched up in an instant, smiling. He tossed the dart aside, his stride never faltering.

Parson-Luk blinked, amazed.

There was an industrial thump; a piston sound that split the air.

The Dax grunted, almost losing his balance as he staggered. He twisted about, surprised.

Jutting from his lower back was a massive rivet. It was crude, inelegant; wholly unexpected. Blood streamed down the Dax's armour. He gripped at the steel bolt, trying to tug it free with a hiss.

Figures emerged from the gloom. Twelve of them. They were a bedraggled lot; hardened men and women dressed in long dusters and ramshackle environment suits. Parson-Luk recognised some of them, from his time aboard the _Severance_. They surrounded the Dax, closing from all angles.

"Liars and thieves, beggars and cut-throats!" The Dax spat, as he finally wrenched the bolt free and cast it aside, taking up his halberd in his hands. "Honourless dogs!"

"Us?" Telin frowned. "We're just playing the odds."

"Twelve to one." Kelpo agreed.

There was a wild chatter as bolts, bullets and blasters sounded from multiple directions. The Dax spun to the ground, holed in several places. Telin Voss stood over him, lowering his smoking pistol.

Incredibly, the golden warrior still lived. He gurgled and hissed through bloodied teeth:

"Insolent peasants! You're nothing more than scavengers!"

"That we are." Telin agreed. "And you're so very shiny."

The Detron sounded twice. Telin holstered the pistol and looked up at Parson-Luk.

"Evenin'."

"Thanks for the assist, Surah." The Ostron winced as he eased himself down from ticking ruin of the limousine. He was a bedraggled mess, covered in streaming foam and a leaking nose.

"Thanks for the distraction. Heading our way?"

Ostron nodded.

A crunch behind them made them all twist about.

Brakarr emerged from the fog, covered in grime; battered but moving albeit with a pronounced limp. He used his broken rotary cannon as a makeshift walking stick.

"Stupid Ostron!" Brakarr fumed. "Next time, Grineer drive!"

* * *

In the throne room of The House Eternal, Septimus held up a forestalling gauntlet.

"Bold words, Tenno Kael; but perhaps ill-advised." Septimus' hand squeezed into a fist. "Your situation is more precarious than you think."

A permeating wave of power swept through the room., radiating from the Orokin warrior.

A Nullification Field, designed to rob the Tenno of the Void's arcane power. To Kael, it was as though his sense of smell or sight had been abruptly stolen. He froze, unsure of himself.

Sara and the others were surrounded by the Dax, who encircled them in perfect synchronisation.

The Tenno had no weapons. Their Warframes were a dead end. Now the Void too was gone.

The circle of blades tightened with each prowling step.

Septimus studied Kael, never blinking.

"The choice before you is binary. Join us now, or die a traitor's death."

Kael swallowed, visibly sweating.

The other Tenno were steadily driven back to back as the Dax honour guard closed the gap, step by measured step.

"Any ideas?" Sara asked, her eyes darting from one spear tip to the next.

"Ars Bellica." Doric hissed urgently. "Counter-containment strategy Four Fifteen."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Sara started. "I said _ideas_ – not wittering _code!"_

Isolde nodded in understanding.

"Break the deadlock."

She abruptly turned and knitted her fingers together. Held them out towards Doric, palms upturned. Doric did the same, bracing his hands beneath hers. Forming a platform, a springboard. The Dax blades were almost close enough to touch.

Sara looked at them as though they had sprouted four heads. Then she realised their intent.

She shrugged.

"Works for me!"

They launched her high into the air. She twisted as she fell, landing with both legs wrapped around the neck of one of the Dax. He stumbled and fell, neck twisting as they went over as one. Sara used her opponent's superior weight to her advantage. With a savage, brittle crack he was done. Sara's hand was at the fallen warrior's belt. A knife flashed through the air, embedding itself in the eye socket of another Dax. The formation came apart, as the Dax instinctively spun to face the new threat.

Isolde and Doric were not idle. They hurled themselves upon the Dax closest to Sara, pouncing at the momentary distraction. Doric's beaked fist caught one Dax in the throat, sending the man gasping to his knees. He grabbed the man's helmet and shattered his nose with a striking knee. Then the halberd was in Doric's hands, whooping as he spun it through the air, driving the rest of them back, buying much needed space.

Isolde had a dagger in her hands, stolen from Sara's kill. They stood as one, facing a wall of golden armour and glinting spears. Even then, the odds were hopelessly one-sided.

Septimus laughed, clapping his gauntleted hands.

"Bravo. Tenno. Truly, we trained you too well."

With a scrape he drew his twinned swords. Master crafted nikana; priceless relics both.

"But without loyalty you are useless to The House Eternal." Septimus shrugged, "Kill them."

Kael rushed Septimus with a shout. A high strike, whisper quick.

The twinned-swords criss-crossed, neatly intercepting Kael's. Septimus chuckled, bemused. He swept both swords upward with a shriek of metal, throwing Kael off-balance. Then the assault began.

Septimus-as-Sohren unleashed a whirlwind of strikes that took every shred of Kael's skill to deflect. He back-pedaled, arms all but wrenched from their sockets, such was the force of each blow. Septimus barely broke a sweat.

Nikana were not traditionally employed in a dual capacity. It was unorthodox, unwieldy. Only a swordsman of particular skill could employ such a stance effectively, and hope to win.

Septimus wore Sohren well, marshaling finely honed muscle memory perfected from decades of relentless training. The blades danced a lethal dance; hissing, shrieking. Kael rolling and flipped to evade the wilder strikes that simply would have simply demolished his guard with brute force, such was the size different between them.

The dual blades in particular were a deciding factor. Kael could devote his attention to one, only for the second to sweep in an unexpected angle. More than one a hand-spring or hasty tumble saved him, as he kicked free of the repeated arcs of steel that scythed through the air, describing a mesmerising blur.

Septimus advanced, relentless.

* * *

Eythan Dax stepped forth from the Dax rank and file, one hand on his nikana.

"No more Void tricks, no proxy Frames. Just you and us, Tenno, here and now. Alone, and in the flesh. Frail and brittle."

Something hit the Dax formation from behind, at speed. A broken rotary cannon, hurled with considerable strength. It bowled many of the Dax off their feet. The chamber filled with the clattering of armour. Those still on their feet spun around, reeling in surprise, shouting challenges.

A single gunshot split the air, silencing them. Even Septimus and Kael's furious duel at the end of the chamber came to a screeching halt.

Telin Voss lowered the steaming Detron. He smiled theatrically, enjoying the audience.

"I have your attention. Good."

Telin nodded to himself, the silence lingering in the air. His boots scraped noisily against the stone floor as he stepped deeper into the chamber. Every pair of eyes watched him. The Dax, wary yet sceptical. The Tenno, incredulous at the scavenger's audacity. His own crew, slightly confused at what exactly their new leader was playing at.

Telin's voice was calm, authoritative.

"Here's how this is going to work. You're going to put the swords down, and step away from the Tenno. We're going to be civilized. Everybody's going to stay calm and –"

Septimus sighed wearily, already bored.

"Kill them."

The Dax dropped to their knees in unison and raised their wrists mounted weapons; drawing cutting discs and elongated pistols of fluted gold. The Scavengers retaliated in kind; bringing to bear all manner of shotguns, focus beams and brutish scrap-ware. There was a bristling of weaponry from both sides.

Caught in the middle, Telin Voss swallowed.

"Balls."

Telin threw himself flat.

Beams and blades and bolts exchanged in a flurry. Weapons discharged at point blank range. Bodies toppled. Golden armour spalled and split apart. Blades sang as warriors charged and Scavengers roared; cutting-axes raised. Both sides charged. There was the sinking thump of bodies impacting bodies. Metal biting flesh. Screams.

In any other situation, it would have proven a one sided slaughter. The Scavengers, for all their hardened grit, were not trained soldiers. They lacked the discipline of the Dax Cadre, the ab-human reflexes and lifetime of relentless physical training and mental conditioning. These were the warriors of old, whose ability had ensured Orokin dominance for centuries. Defeat simply did not form part of their DNA.

But the Scavengers were not alone. Brakarr waded through the melee, smashing golden warriors aside and snarling even as Orokin halberds speared his flanks. Parson-Luk unleashed bolas that tripped ankles and launched fizzling net launchers that tangled about the Dax's faces, the Grinlok rifle thumping out hasty shots whenever a chance arose. Telin's drone flitted above the melee, spitting bolts until a throwing dagger speared it squarely in the eye, pinning it to the far wall.

Telin's Detron kicked three times in quick succession. The Dax bearing down on him didn't even slow. Kelpo tackled the Dax from the side, and yelped as he was flung one-handed over the man's shoulder. Other scavengers charged in turn. The Dax made short work of them; quick brutal cuts that chopped his crew down like timber.

A flying stump of an arm caught Telin in the side of the head, knocking him off his feet.

* * *

The other Tenno rushed the Dax from behind, sliding low or leaping high. They lacked the physicality of the mighty Dax, but they had a nimble speed and peerless training. Doric and Sara rolled and tumbled between arcing blades, trading strikes and parries with blinding speed.

Isolde's focus was singular. With the dagger in her hand she lunged straight for Eythan Dax.

Brakarr beat her to the punch. The Grineer was lost in a battle rage, bellowing incoherently; blinded with pain. The Dax flowed as water, sword blurring and the Grineer's legs gave way, flitting sparks and spraying oil and steam. The Dax rose his sword to finish the job, when a bola snapped around his wrist, knocking the descending strike off-target. Still the blade descended, lancing into the war rig at an angle; biting deep. Brakarr howled.

Something tried to tackle Eythan Dax. A wiry, sinewy old man; stinking of incense and old leathery oils. Eythan Dax looked down, entirely unmoved. He barked a laugh. The skinny wretch was better served trying to tackle an oak tree.

The Dax lifted the Ostron hunter by the throat, steadily clenching his hand around the man's windpipe.

"An Ostron, giving his life for a Grineer?" Eythan Dax chuckled as he tightened his grip. "The first surprise I've had in centuries."

The Ostron's eyes bulged. Only they weren't looking at him. Eythan Dax saw the reflection in the man's bulging eyes.

Something behind them. Moving at speed.

Eythan Dax cast the Ostron aside and spun; flashing his blade to intercept at the last second.

The dagger met the nikana with a shriek, locking in place. Isolde's face was a mask of controlled fury.

"No running this time, Tenno." Eythan Dax leered.

"I've no intention of running." Isolde hissed. "Not when there's a job to finish!"

Actions matched words. The golden dagger in Isolde's hands was more blade than any single kunai. It weathered the nikana's savagery with a determination matched only by the cold, pitiless glare in the Tenno's eyes. Soon it was notched, chipped beyond any recognition. Relentless, Isolde pressed her attack: rolling and hurling herself at him, again and again. Leaps and tumbles into lashing kicks and descending swipes. A peerless fighter, Eythan Dax met each of them, and yet the wave only continued to build, becoming a tsunami.

Eythan Dax knew the look of a berserker. Had seen it countless times during the horror of The Old War. This was not that. This was something else: a controlled fury, a commitment to the fight that was singular, absolute. Nothing held in reserve, yet deliberate in its approach, methodical. His sword was a blur, but still she was quicker. A strike breached his guard, chipping at his vambrace. Eythan Dax blinked.

Another strike, this one at a knee guard. Again the armour caught it. Her fighting style blended more than the Thousand Feats. It was feral, improvised. Born of brawling in low tier colonies and backwater settlements all across the Origin System. Pugilistic strikes, sweeping feet; all infused with a merciless, cold anger. Blended with the training provided by The House Eternal, it lunged and nipped at him, striking from unexpected angles, relentless.

A hand clamped onto his ankle. The Grineer, mutilated on the ground, leaking oil and blood and coolant in equal measure. There was no strength left in the brute's grip, and a single twist of the Dax's foot freed him easily. But as a momentary distraction, it was enough. Isolde's blade nicked Dax flesh, and Eythan hissed in pain, blood streaming from his elbow, where the notched dagger had slashed the narrow section where his armour joints parted.

For the first time ever, Eythan Dax felt true pain. And with that, something else.

Fear.

He narrowed his eyes, steeling his resolve. He brought the sword back three times, catching the dagger thrice in quick succession. A fourth strike sparked off his belly armour, once. And though her brow was sheened with sweat, and she pushed her mortal frame to its very limits, Isolde was speaking.

Quoting him.

"No Void tricks."

Isolde swooped beneath the next sword strike, lashing out and puncturing the armpit of his armour. Blood drippled freely down his flank now. The Dax's arm went abruptly numb. Still he parried the next blow, stumbling backward.

"No proxy Frames."

He swung, drunkenly; cleaving only air. Isolde circled him, pacing like a hungry cat.

"Just you and me. Alone….

An overhand swing, trying to bisect her. The sword met the stone floor with a clang.

Isolde was beneath his guard. She all but embraced him, whispered in his ear.

"…and in the flesh."

She drove the dagger into Eythan Dax's chest, in the narrow gap between the breastplate and the belly.

"Frail," Isolde twisted the dagger, pushing it downward. "… and _brittle._ "

Isolde released the dagger, stepping back. Eythan Dax gasped, felt his lifeblood spilling onto the floor. He blinked, tottering backward. The melee around him slowed to a crawl.

The golden nikana clattered to the floor. His knees followed suit.

Isolde scooped the golden nikana up as she watched Eythan Dax dribbled blood listlessly. Blood coated her hands.

"I would make this slower. Really, I would. But he always emphasised efficiency. And I keep my promises."

Eythan Dax's hands quivered as he pulled out the dagger that had riven his stomach asunder. His insides spilled out in ropey lengths. More than horror, Eythan Dax felt the burning shame of absolute defeat. Isolde tightened her grip upon the golden hilt.

"For Terrenus."

Eythan Dax managed a strangled croak, then Isolde brought the sword down. A clean strike. His head flopped across the floor, bouncing twice.

There was no relief, no cathartic satisfaction. Only a cold emptiness. Isolde's eyes were dull as she stood there, surrounded on all sides by similar acts of carnage.

* * *

Across the chamber, Kael hit the floor, rolling twice. Septimus had caught him with the heel of his golden boot, square in the chest. Winded, the Tenno rolled onto his back, lungs sucking for air that would not come. Sohren's sword had been knocked from Kael's hands, skittering across the far end of the chamber.

"Look around you." Septimus spat as he approached, pointing one sword at the brawl engulfing the throne room. "Is _this_ what you want? Is _this_ the legacy you choose?"

Kael said nothing. Couldn't speak even if he wanted to.

He clawed his way backward, scrambling for Sohren's blade.

"We are Orokin." Septimus spat, the veins in his neck bulging. "We are the one true order that can save this system from itself. Peerless, without equal! _"_

Kael would never reach the sword in time.

Telin Voss was many things. A mischief, a scavver, a self-interested gambler with few friends and fewer prospects. Most of all, he was a gambler.

Of all these varied things, Telin was no warrior. It was perhaps because of this that the Dax paid him no heed as he scrambled through the melee on his belly, surrounded on all sides by clashing warriors who bled and died in a churning frenzy. He was coated in blood, grime and sweat; a hundred different stains from a thousand different indignities visited on him over the preceding day.

Fortune smiled on him twice, at that moment.

That he made it as far as the base of the dais was one thing.

That he managed to finally land a shot with his Detron and was quite another entirely.

Even then it was a horrible shot. The not entirely trusty Detron only clipped Septimus' gauntlet. This was less than optimal. Telin had been aiming for the warrior's exposed head.

Fortune smiled a third time. The bolt deflected, catching Septimus' cheek; cooking the flesh in an instant.

Maimed, Septimus toppled, both nikanas tumbling to the floor as he clutched his ruined face.

"My face!" Septimus shrieked. "You ingrate! You animals! We are Orokin! We are Gods!"

Kael rolled back, the Sohren's blade appearing in his hands once more.

"You forget yourself, Septimus. We _slaughter_ Gods."

He charged. Septimus snatched up his swords, livid; catching the strike just in time. The duel resumed in earnest. Telin hissed in frustration. The duellists moved too quickly to risk a shot. Knowing his luck, he would only hit Kael, and if that happened it was all over.

Telin did what little he could. He drew his improvised hand-axe and charged.

He tripped on the steps. This was probably just as well, as a return sweep of Septimus' sword would have entirely bisected him there and then.

Septimus' perfect face was flayed and charred on one side, one eye swollen shut. As ugly and twisted as the Orokin Empire itself. He stomped his foot at Telin's head. The scavenger rolled, panicking. The boot landed so heavily stone cracked.

Then Kael was on Septimus, driving him back. The Orokin was a wild beast. Maimed as he was, robbed of his perfect beauty, Septimus snarled and struck wildly. Pushing himself beyond any reasonable measure. Completely overextending himself.

Kael gave ground, but for the first time ever in a duel with Sohren, the young Tenno held back. Bade his time. Watched the erratic, wild striking patterns for what they were: reactive, petulant; a killing tantrum. As the twin swords slashed and whipped at him in a chaotic frenzy, Kael studied his attacker. There was no pattern, no structure to it. But there were flaws in the frenzy. A lack of self-regard, an absence of defensive discipline.

It strengthened Kael. Helped him steel his resolve for what needed to be done.

Sohren would never have been so sloppy.

Kael met the berserk Orokin head on. A high deflection, flowing into three quick counter cuts that met each chopping sword in turn. Kael found his gap. He smashed the hilt of his sword upwards in a savage uppercut; cracking his knuckles into Septimus' chin. Felt his own fingers break.

Kael shunted the pain aside. His grip on Sohren's sword never wavered, stepped into the Orokin's guard.

Kael shouted as he spun, dropping to one knee. He stabbed the nikana behind him, once.

Sohren's blade drove clean through Septimus' breastplate, piercing the beating heart within.

Septimus gasped. Blood jetted down the length of the blade. There was a clatter as twinned nikana slipped from his hands. Kael rose to his feet, head bowed.

A hush fell over the entire throne room. All eyes were on the violent tableau at the end of the room: the scavenger, draped on the steps, a smoking Detron in his hands. The lone Tenno, turning to look in shock at what he had just accomplished.

The Golden Lord, with the hilt of a golden sword jutting from his chest.

Nobody dared breathe.

Septimus looked down at the blade. He took one shuddering step back, then another.

He slumped back into the throne, gazing down in amazement. There was a palsied shake to his hand as he tried to pull the sword free, and failed.

The Orokin's voice was small and confused, as he marvelled at the blood seeping down his breastplate.

"But we are the House Eternal…" Septimus whispered, "… our will is…. forever…"

His head drooped. The light in his eyes faded.

The Nullification faded. The Void returned once more.

Lord Septimus was gone.

There was a flurry as the surviving Dax gave a single stern shout, and took their lives in unison. Opening their throats or falling upon their swords. The surviving scavengers yelped in horror, but it was over in one savage instant. Golden bodies crashed to the ground left and right.

Doric lowered the halberd, shocked. He had been driven into a corner, surrounded on all sides. Sara gingerly stepped over the bodies that littered the floor. She and Isolde embraced, shaking from the adrenaline; exhausted beyond words.

Kael drew Sohren's blade from Septimus' chest. He wiped the blade clean, holding it close as he bowed, deeply. The bow was many things. A confirmation that the deed was done. An apology, for being too late. Most of all a farewell, to a fallen brother.

Then the Tenno fell to his knees, and wept.

* * *

Telin rolled onto his back, blinking as he took in the carnage that had been visited upon the throne room. Little more than a third of the scavengers had survived: would have been doomed, but for the intercession of the Tenno and their bounty hunter allies. He saw Stren hauling Kelpo back onto his feet.

Telin caught their eye with a wink as he gestured to the aftermath of the carnage all around them.

"See? All according to plan."

"Soon as I reload." Stren growled. "I'm going to shoot him."

"Not If I shoot him first." Kelpo countered darkly.

Parson-Luk hurried over to Brakarr. The Grineer had been punctured, slashed and clipped at the knees. Yet the internal housing of his war rig remained stubbornly unscathed. The old Grineer warrior still breathed. The Ostron worked quickly: deft hands tying loose tubing and cannibalising spare parts to salvage essential systems.

"You still with us, Grineer?" Isolde asked as she crossed the chamber.

Brakarr flapped his hand at them, refusing to be fussed over.

The Grineer reached up and unsealed his facemask. A toothy grin split his mottled, leathery face.

"Tenno _skoom_."

"This is all very touching, but this isn't over." Doric addressed the chamber, voice carried by the acoustics of the vaulted walls. All eyes were on him as he climbed the steps, turning to face the survivors as a whole. "There's still a Corpus frigate in low orbit."

Kael appeared at his side, eyes raw, expression determined.

"I'll need a Liset."

"You'll have it." Doric nodded. "But you'll need to be quick."

Kael simply smiled at that.

"And you _won't_ go alone." Sara warned him. "Not this time."

Kael bowed gratefully, hands clasped before him.

Mesa stepped forward, Isolde's voice filling the air as the Pyrana twirled in her fingers.

"Well then, shall we?"

* * *

An hour later, an alert chimed softly on the bridge of the _Dominant Position_. Ennui had set in across the bridge, trapped as they were in a holding pattern.

"What was that?" Captain Pohld asked his XO. Lieutenant Sel.

Sel's brow creased as he consulted the display momentarily.

"Minor sensor anomaly, Sir." Sel reported mildly, double checking. "It's gone now. Debris from the remnants of the Orbital Defence Grid, most likely."

"Very well. Carry on."

* * *

The ceiling grate hit the floor with a clang.

Volt dropped from the rafters, cloak flowing around him as he rose to his feet. Behind him, Mesa, fingers twitching low at her side. Kael looked back at Isolde, nodded once.

Elsewhere, Atlas and Mirage were already in position.

Kael gave the order.

The power went out. Ship wide outage, total system failure.

By the time power was fitfully restored, it was too late.

The record maintains that the _Dominant Position_ was lost due to catastrophic core breach, on account of a poorly mounted fuel cell.

At a Board level, the loss of material was quietly noted, but deemed inconsequential. Boards of inquiry were conducted, insurance policies claimed. Then the matter was closed, the colony and its troubling history quietly forgotten: a small blot on an otherwise profitable quarter.

Core components of the ship still linger in the orbital debris field, even to this day.

* * *

Atop the _Severance Package,_ back-lit by the Venusian sky, Telin and Kelpo watched as the explosion settled. The severed bridge module entered the atmosphere, descending like a comet; disintegrating from the sheer fiery heat of the atmosphere. It came apart in a thousand fiery pieces, that vanished as contrails of streaming smoke that lingered for hours after the fact.

The remnants of the Corpus army watched too, from afar. They were stranded here now. In time, they would acclimate to the battered colony, free of the constant indoctrination of Board dogma. Some would descend into criminality, others becoming vagrants and drifters: pawn brokers and guns for hire. This is not their story.

"Repairs are underway." Kelpo said. "Teico says we'll be airworthy in less than an hour. What're you thinking?"

Telin Voss said nothing for a moment. He looked at the silent Orokin barge, studying it.

Truly, a once in a lifetime find. Priceless.

Telin chuckled, shaking his head ruefully. He turned his head and spat.

"Think I'd rather find out where Neera went. Let's get out of here."

Kelpo did a double take.

"Really? You don't want to do anything about the giant Tier Zero find sitting _right there_?"

"Trust me, Kelp." Telin clapped Kelpo on the arm, still chuckling as he headed for the bridge. "More trouble than it's worth."


	49. Epilogue: On Prospect 141

_"Prospect 141? Nobody goes there anymore."_

\- Unknown trader

* * *

Months passed.

There were, naturally, unresolved matters. Our universe is a messy place, and never truly has an ending. It drives on, with the endless passing of time; relentless.

Prospect 141 was left to its own devices; forgotten by the very corporations that once dictated its every waking moment. The Upper Tier, once a monument to Corpus dominance, became a No Man's Land: a desolate wasteland that masked the teeming life in the Mid and Low Tiers beneath. The surviving Corpus, free of the routine indoctrination that so many crewmen were subjected to, became a gang in their own right; bartering the ruined drones and scrap resources for food and access to the colony below.

As for the Orokin vessel. It departed soon after the events of this story, retrieved by agents of the Tenno and their mysterious allies. That it led to a renewed interest in Orokin technology, and the eventual reawakening of the Rail thereafter.

There is no law in Prospect 141. Not anymore. It is a black market city, an illicit trade hub; a scavver's paradise. The gangs rule much of it, and in truth I am glad to see the back of it.

The rebellion was never intended to liberate the colony. Opinion on it amongst the Solaris remains divided, even today. Some praise Vanger Hosk, calling him a hero for defying the Board against unstoppable odds. Others branded him a fool, who damned a colony. Hosk's Folly, as they sneeringly call it.

As for how you see it, I leave that to you. I have told events as best as I remember them, building the wider picture from interviews of those who played a larger role than I. All I know is this: Vanger Hosk was an honourable man, and did what he felt was best.

I still remember that day, on the fateful push up the ziggurat. My arm still aches, even now.

It was a salient lesson to Solaris United. Never again would they face the Board in open field. Their proxies are too many, their resources too great. No, the Solaris cause would live on in the shadows, hiding in plain sight beneath their master's very nose. In time, the benefits of that daring raid would become apparent. The struggle would continue, anew.

Others would take up their cause, in time.

Of the Tenno who fought in that early battle, I know not what became of them. They were warriors of the Void, cursed and blessed in equal measure. Their stories are their own.

And, surely, only beginning.


	50. Coda: Of Endings, and Beginnings

Coda: _Of Endings, and Beginnings_

* * *

They buried the Dax's sword on a hill overlooking Cetus.

In the distance, the Condroc's plaintive cries echoed across the steppe. Soon it would be dark, and the waters would glow that ethereal glow. They must be quick. Soon, the Eidolon would stir.

Parson-Luk breathed deeply, drinking in another lungful of scented, clean air. He was incredulous to be back on the Plains. Incredulous to be alive, and reunited with his daughter once more. Ordinarily out in the wild he would be wary. Even in the long shadows of sunset, there were often Grineer patrols about.

And yet he was not. The Tenno were with him, and mighty Brakarr too. His companion's new war rig was a monstrous thing indeed; paid for by the vast credit reserves Terrenus Vern held, but never truly enjoyed. And yet the brute watched peacefully as Parson-Luk's daughter Valla ran circles around him, delighted by the shining giant, and the chance to step beyond the city's walls.

Valla was healthy. For that the old tracker was glad.

As gatherings went it made for an eclectic mix: the Tenno, the Ostron and the rogue Grineer. The scavvers of Venus had sent a bottle of aged moonshine, dredged from the ever-suspicious stores of the _Severance Package._ There would be sore heads in the morning.

The Quills too were present. They watched from afar. Fate seems to shift and churn around these Tenno in a state of constant flux. It fascinated them.

Isolde led the ceremony, surrounded by her fellow Tenno. They bid farewell to Terrenus Vern and Tenno Sohren. The funeral wreath was tied by the Tenno as one, under the Ostron tracker's careful instruction.

They placed it on the great boulder Brakarr rolled into position.

Isolde and the Tenno pressed their hands against the smooth rock, burning their hand prints into the stone.

The Ostron left a tribute of a sharpened zaw, engraved with Vern's name.

Valla, a single iron flower.

Two great warriors, honoured by a nomadic tribe of mercenaries and warriors.

It seemed fitting, in a way.

For this was Cetus: Landless, of no one clade; home to any who are blown as dust on the wind.

* * *

As reunions went, it was a brief one.

Parson-Luk remained on the dock with Valla and Brakarr, watching the Tenno Lisets depart one by one. The Exchange still hunted them. Even under the Unum's endless watch, none of them were truly safe.

As it came together, the Cell diverged once more, bound for destinations far beyond the lapping shore.

The two bounty hunters and the young girl watched them go: content, for now, for a moment's rest.

* * *

Kael looked around at the Relay, mouth agape. Stunned by the shoals of Lisets that streamed in and out of the station, his head on a swivel.

There were more Tenno than he had ever seen. All manner of Frames strolled through the entryway. No two were alike.

Each told a story, wore a storied history on their armour: be it through dented plating or ornate scroll-work. A riot of colour and self-expression, far more than was ever permitted by the House Eternal.

Kael shook himself. That was the past.

This… _this_ was his future.

Other Tenno greeted him as they stepped through the arrival gates, some saluting or bowing to as they approached. Many passed without a second glance. They were strangers to Kael, and yet he felt a kinship with them.

What stories had they lived? What glories had they witnessed?

Below their feet stretched the entirety of Venus. Prospect 141 seemed a small and distant memory now: tiny, insignificant.

Doric and Sara awaited him at the foot of a statue, watching their bewildered friend with bemused smiles.

"What happens now?" Kael asked.

Doric looked at Sara. Sara grinned.

"That, my dear Tenno, is entirely your decision."

* * *

The Exchange was a city unto itself. A floating trade hub, surrounded on all sides by Corpus picket ships and larger frigates. It nestled at the heart of Corpus space, in low orbit over Neptune.

The Hall of Submission was ornate, by Corpus standards. The floor was a rich amber marble, imported at significant expense. The supporting columns overlooking the vast space, hiding their metallic core in layers of stained copper. Any visitor would never think they were on a cyclopean space station, but for the silvered viewport that looked out onto the Corpus fleet beyond.

People of all kinds flocked here. Those with grudges to nurse and credits to burn. A long counter of processing clerks awaited the crowds: sixteen clerks long, each with a dizzying amount of cybernetic prosthesis. The length of the waiting lines in the reception hall spoke volumes as to the current state of galactic harmony. It didn't matter who they were. Everything was a transaction here. Credits for blood. Life for Profit.

Across the Origin System, the Exchange's agents stood by, awaiting their bloody work; preparing weapons and watching the alerts as the bounty boards steadily updated.

The clerk worked her station as best she could: cybernetic hands dancing across the haptic display at her station. Sweat beaded her tattooed forehead. She had processed two hundred contracts this work cycle, and there were another six hours left on her shift.

"Next!"

The girl in the hood stepped forward. She was diminutive, far too young to be in a place like this. Still, there was protocol.

"Name."

A name was given, inputted at lightning speed.

"Face forward for the camera please."

The girl removed her hood, staring regally at the hovering drone, perfectly poised. The clerk abruptly stopped typing.

The girl was little more than a teenager. Delicately beautiful, with ivory skin and dark black hair tied in an elegant ponytail.

Yet there was something _off_ about her. An ethereal glow to her eyes. An aura of cold precision that belied her years.

The clerk blinked, conscious that she had lost precious seconds of productivity. Any further dallying would be penalised. She triggered the tiny camera drone with a hasty wave of her hand. The recording began: uploading the conversation to the Exchange archive.

"Please state your business." The clerk requested.

"I'm here about an outstanding contract." The girl began, in a clipped, formal accent. "I wish to make a formal complaint."

"I see. Which contract?"

The clerk's hands hovered over the holographic keyboard, waiting.

The girl tilted her head upwards, her eyes meeting the clerk's directly.

Isolde flashed a dangerous smile, right before the alarms sounded.

"Mine."


End file.
